


Roses are Red, some Orchids are Blue

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Emotional Manipulation, Happy Ending, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 03:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12050337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Dorian, 27 years old, senior in college, and Bull, 31 years old, freshman at the same college, meet each other by mere chance. Both men are carrying heavy weights from their past, but while Bull’s weight gradually becomes lighter, Dorian’s only grows heavier and heavier with each passing day.Against all odds, they drift closer and closer to each other, and although Dorian knows this is a relationship doomed to end sooner rather than later, he cannot find it in himself to let Bull go.





	1. (then) won't you stay the night?

**Author's Note:**

> I am very pleased with how this story turned out, and I'm super happy to post it now for all of you to read! thank you thank you THANK YOU for my artist, [Sarah](http://sarahwhat.tumblr.com), and my beta, [Jasper](http://justjasper.tumblr.com/), you two are incredible and this fic would not have been complete without the two of you ❤ ❤ ❤ 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
> \---

It’s a nice saturday night; the sky is clear, the wind is crispy cold against Bull’s cheeks, and the crowd is excited to be done with another week of exams – or, in Bull’s case, his first.

Bull sips on his beer and sighs. He can relate, but at the same time he’s not as young as they are, not as prone to being so reckless and think a bit of marijuana in a shared bong is the best thing ever since sliced bread.

Go to the frat party, Krem said. You need to have some fun, Krem said.

With that Bull agrees; he _does_ need to have some fun. He’s been trying to get his mind off of heavy stuff in all the wrong ways, like drowning himself in his studies and leaving no free time for bad _or_ good things to distract him. His teachers all praise him constantly as consequence of this nearly obsessive need to study as hard as possible, and his grades are all nearly perfect, but Krem just shakes his head and asks, _at what cost?_

So in the end he agreed to come to the party to wind down, but too late did he realize that his own understanding of what a party is differs greatly from what a barely-twenty-years-old might thinks it is. And needless to say, being cramped inside a crowded, noisy and stuffy house while everyone around him dances like they’re nearly possessed is not Bull’s idea of fun. All it does is make him nervous and claustrophobic, his skin prickling uncomfortably until all he can think about is to _get away_.

Which is how he now finds himself enjoying the quiet evening outside by himself, nursing a half-empty bottle of beer.

Several minutes later the door to the balcony behind him opens, letting through the shrill sound of the music and making him flinch. _How can anyone enjoy that?!_ , he wonders, grunting lowly and looking back at whoever is intruding his solitude, and the sight makes him melt almost immediately.

Through the threshold steps a strikingly handsome man that quickly closes the door behind him and sighs out with relief when it muffles out the noise inside the house. He slowly steps forward, resting his forearms on the balcony a few feet away from Bull and hanging his head down as if tired. Bull looks at him sympathetically.

“Couldn’t handle it either, huh?”

The man looks sideways at Bull, barely moving his head. His eyes are such a light blue they’re nearly grey, lined heavily but precisely with smudged black eyeliner and finished with a dash of gold shimmer on the corner of his eyes and at the arch of his eyebrow. A well-kept mustache frames his upper lip, and his outfit, a silk grey shirt with a black vest atop it, matching a pair of heavy black combat boots over skin tight dark blue jeans, is by far sharper than anyone else’s in the party, which full of much younger kids than either of them are. The scowl on his face is almost comically deep, but not even that takes away his stunning beauty.

“How anyone could handle that monstrosity those _neanderthals_ call a party is beyond me,” the man comments, his voice deep and heavy with a Tevinter accent; Bull had an idea of his heritage by the bronze tone of his skin and the precise shape of his nose and cheekbones, but if he was ever in doubt of him being either a descendant or a pure national, the man’s voice leaves none whatsoever. Bull chuckles and nods in agreement, swinging his beer back to take another sip.

And maybe to showcase his neck. _Maybe_.

Luckily it has the intended effect; the man looks at Bull again, almost as if he hadn’t seen him the first time, and his expression seems to soften, which is a first for Bull; usually people shy away or flinch at the sight of the horns atop his head, the sheer, broad size of his body, and of course the barely concealed scars behind his eyepatch, but surprisingly enough, the man doesn’t seem to be intimidated by any of those things. He straightens his back, his whole body unfurling like a bird of prey, and extends a hand decorated with at least half a dozen rings, looking straight at Bull’s face, with no sign whatsoever that he’s the least intimidated by Bull’s presence.

Bull takes the offered hand. It vanishes inside Bull’s palm; it is usually a comical sight, but the man’s handshake is strong and firm. Bull feels the cold rings against his skin, digging painfully into his flesh. He shivers.

“Dorian Pavus, major in theoretical and practical molecule manipulation. Senior year. And you are...?”

Bull whistles, grinning. “Impressive introductions. I’m Bull Ashkaari, but you can just call me Bull. I’m a freshman, majoring in botany.”

Dorian lifts a single brow as far as it can go, and makes a show of looking Bull up and down. “Botany? I could’ve sworn you would be majoring in PE or something. Maybe some sort of engineering.”

At that, Bull just shrugs. “People often make that mistake,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets, and Dorian nods. When Bull doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t ask, which is, at the very least, a nice surprise. Not everyone gets the subtle cues Bull gives when he doesn't want to talk about something.

“These youngsters, all so new to college, thinking that _this_ was hard. They have little to no idea of what truly awaits them.” Dorian turns back to the railing, effectively changing the subject. He indicates Bull with his head. “I’m pretty sure you don’t know what awaits you either. You said you’re a freshman? Enrolled this year, then?”

“Yup.” Bull pulls up a chair and sits down facing the gardens before them, turned enough towards Dorian so they can keep talking. “Never had the opportunity to go to college before. I figured, no time like the present, right? And here I am.”

“Here you are indeed. Liking it so far?”

Bull shrugs. “Classes are good. Teachers are good. The subjects I’ve taken so far are good. Classmates? Could be better.”

Dorian hums to himself, nodding. “Yes, well. You’d think that if a person got into such a prestigious college they’d be more excited about studying, and then you’d actually have to study with them and you realize you’d been wrong.”

Bull barks out a laugh. “Yeah! Exactly! I mean, I know botany isn’t exactly the most _exciting_ of subjects, but you’d think that a person would just pick another major if they didn’t like it, right?”

“And again, you’d be dreadfully wrong,” Dorian says with a grin, making Bull laugh again.

For an entire hour they talk, Dorian telling him about the atrocities he’s seen in his four first years of college, and Bull sharing the few experiences he’s had during his first three months. They find that they can relate to many things, similar experiences that they’ve been through, despite how different their majors, and chatting is easy.

An hour later, when they hear the partygoers whooping as they leave the house and start taking over the house’s front garden, they decide it’s time to go.

“Let us get our coats, shall we?” Dorian says, reopening the glass door. The deafening music booms again, and Bull winces.

“I almost don’t want to, if it means going back in,” Bull grumbles, but still he gets up and ducks through the door with Dorian, who just lifts a single brow.

“But?” Dorian asks, screaming the one word so he can be heard over the music as they go up the stairs. Bull grins and leans down to talk quietly in Dorian’s ear.

“But coats my size are almost as hard to find as condoms.”

Dorian turns back to Bull, slowly, and grins right back.

No more words are exchanged between them, but Bull helps Dorian into his coat, unnecessarily stroking his shoulders to supposedly straighten the fabric, and they walk down and out of the house with their arms purposefully brushing together with every step they take, fingers touching and eyes glancing towards each other.

It says more than a thousand words.

Dorian and Bull make their way through campus like that, slowly, and eventually they put their hands in their pockets to ward off the cold. All around there are parties happening, several drunk and high students in various stages of undress running around the streets. It’s a sight like one Bull’s only ever seen in movies, but he’s never thought the real thing up close would be quite so... _disturbing_.

“So,” Dorian starts once they're far enough from the frat houses to be able to talk in a normal tone. He looks around to make sure no one’s paying attention to them, then wraps a hand around Bull’s bicep. Just that warmth through their clothes sends sparks of excitement through Bull. “Your place or mine?”

“Whichever’s closer.”

“What a lovely idea.”

And with that, Dorian smiles, a wicked, sexy thing, reaching up to wrap a hand on the back of Bull’s neck and pulls him down to kiss him.

Bull closes his eye, savoring the moment. It’s the first time in a very long time since he’s kissed someone, and it’s a wonderful feeling. Dorian’s lips are soft, taste faintly of strawberry chapstick, and his mustache tickles against his scruff. The fingers on his nape twist, nails digging into the hard muscle of his neck, and Bull hums. He feels a cold breeze passing by, barely noticeable given the heat they’re sharing, so up close, bodies slowly gravitating towards one another until they’re touching, first gently, then desperately as Dorian deepens the kiss and leans heavily onto Bull, like one is a consequence of the other. One arm wraps around Bull’s torso and clings desperately to his shirt like his life depends on it, and Bull greedily drinks Dorian in, wraps him in his arms, pulls him tightly, wishes they could be even closer than is physically possible.

Even before anything else has happened Bull knows this will be a night he will never forget.

 

\---

 

Dorian could never say it out loud, for the sake of his pride and his reputation, but the evening with Bull, the mysterious qunari majoring _in botany_ , was by far the best night he’s ever spent with a man.

And when he says a night he means _a night_. As in an _entire_ night _._

The man was like an endless pool of stamina, willing to give just as much as he was willing to receive. At no point either of them became bored or hesitant about one another. They didn’t so much fell asleep as they passed out from sheer exhaustion at some ungodly hour in the morning, Bull’s blackout curtain blocking out the sun and providing them the rest they much needed.

Dorian wakes about four hours later, still not one-hundred percent yet but well enough to get up, moving as softly as a kitten so he won’t wake Bull, snoring softly, sheets half tangled around his legs. Dorian dresses, stops to admire _those thighs_ , then shakes his head and finally walks out of the quaint little house before he decides to give in and go back to bed. It’s the least awkward walk of shame that he’s ever done, despite the obvious skip on his step and the goofy smile on his lips, at around 10am on a Sunday morning. He makes a brief stop on his usual coffee shop without a care in the world and orders a blueberry muffin and a bottle of water, making the barista raise a brow when Dorian refuses his usual order of coffee.

He goes back to his own apartment, savoring the pastry like it’s the best goddamn thing he’s had to eat all year. When he opens the door he sees Felix sitting at his desk, as is his usual for a Sunday morning, typing away at his laptop. He looks up when Dorian walks in, raising a single brow knowingly, but Dorian just keeps on smiling, humming a tune to himself as he sips the last dregs of his water bottle.

“Someone’s in a good mood today,” Felix comments, turning around and crossing his arms in a mock disapproving gesture, and Dorian flops down on their sofa, for once not able to think of a single witty remark and not caring that he probably looks like a complete doofus.

“You could say that, yes,” Dorian replies, chucking his shirt and reaching up towards the sofa’s armrests, stretching languidly. Both of Felix’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widening.

“And I assume that it has at least _something_ to do with those purple marks all over your chest.”

Dorian sighs, looking at Felix through heavy lashes. “You assume right.”

Felix chuckles, like a dry cough, his mouth agape and his computer all but forgotten. “Well then. Feel free to _not_ share the sordid details, although I have a feeling you might do just that sooner or later.”

“Well, if I were you I’d bet on much, much later, because right now, my dear friend, all I want is my beauty sleep.” Dorian then turns on his side and hides his face on one of the pillows, his bare back facing the room at large. He immediately hears Felix choking, then spluttering, then dashing out of his chair to pull the throw blanket off the back of the sofa and place it over Dorian’s bare body.

“Ooookay, this is the first time I’ve seen you TMI me without saying a single word. Well done, Dorian.”

“Thank you, Felix. Now be a dear and close the blinds, will you?”

“Why do I put up with you again?”

“Because you love me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Felix chuckles, rolling the blinds closed and sending the living room into darkness. He takes his books and laptop and goes to his room. “Good morning, Dorian. Sleep well.”

 

\---

 

It’s been two weeks, and Dorian hasn‘t seen the gorgeous botany freshman he met at the frat party two weeks prior, despite the fact that he keeps his eyes open everyday for a pair of horns amongst the crowd of students whenever he leaves class, something he thought would be fairly easy to spot given that the man is two feet taller than the average person; unfortunately, he’s had no such luck so far. In his morning grogginess he didn’t think to leave his phone number anywhere, and campus is so big and his assignments are so time consuming so close to the end of his bachelors it’s hard to find the time to actively go looking for him, although he constantly thinks of doing it, especially when reminiscing the wonderful evening they spent together.

It’s another day he’s gone through without sleep, working on an essay he has to hand out in just a couple of days. He drags himself into his usual coffee shop at some ungodly hour in the morning, focusing on moving one leg at a time, and reminding himself that if he keeps resorting to energetics instead of coffee he’s going to have to work harder at the gym later, which he does not want at all.

He orders his usual, tips the cashier generously for putting up with his monosyllabic rudeness, and then sits down on one of the window stools to wait for his coffee to be ready.

That’s when the barista calls out a familiar name.

“Bull!”

Immediately Dorian jolts up, more awake than he was five seconds before, looking around, and sure enough, there he is, in all his gorgeous, wide-horned, broad-bodied, grey-skinned glory: Bull Ashkaari, wearing a tank top that looks about ready to burst, a pair of baggy pants striped in rust red and mustard yellow, and heavy leather boots. It absolutely is the most _horrendous_ outfit Dorian has ever seen.

How Bull pulls it off enough to make his mouth water is beyond him.

“Bull?” Dorian asks, sitting up straighter, and Bull turns around with his brows raised, looking just as shocked as Dorian feels when he spots him.

“Holy shit, Dorian! I finally found you!”

“Well, technically _I_ found _you_ ,” Dorian says with a grin, getting up from his seat to get his own cup of coffee. Bull chuckles.

“True enough. Wanna go outside and talk for a bit? Or are you in a rush?”

Dorian’s plan was, in fact, to get his coffee and leave; he is _actually_ in a rush, because there’s still a lot of work to do on the essay he has to deliver tomorrow, and thus every minute counts. But Bull is here; _Bull,_ a person Dorian’s been thinking about for the last fourteen days, someone he’s been beating himself up for not getting to know better, for not having a way to contact again, for letting him slip away from his grasp like fine sand falling between his fingers. And now he’s here, at arm’s length.

_And what arms._

“It can wait,” Dorian says, sauntering out of the coffee shop to sit on one of the tables outside, and without even looking to check he knows Bull follows him.

They pick a place far from the doors shaded by a tree, Dorian with his black coffee and Bull with what looks like to be some sort of flavored latte and a warm pastry. They drink and eat in silence for about a minute, and Bull is finally the one to speak first.

“Look, I... I hope I didn’t do anything wrong that night. I admit I got overexcited.”

Dorian lifts a single brow, looking over at Bull like he’s grown a second pair of horns.

“I honestly have no idea why you’d assume such a thing.”

Bull shrugs, takes another sip of his latte. “You left so quietly and without saying anything, I was worried I might have done something to scare you off.”

Immediately Dorian shakes his head, feeling distressed. “Oh, no, no, no, I-- I’m so sorry, Bull, I admit that thinking back my hasty retreat was mostly indelicate of me. But you needn’t worry, I had... a more than wonderful time that evening. It was pure bliss, from start to finish. In my morning haze I just completely forgot to leave a note for when you woke up, not to mention that it goes against my principles to wake people after they’ve had a long, tiring night. _Thou shan’t do to another what thou might not want to be done to yourself_ , is it not?”

Bull nods, smiling softly, his shoulders slumping slightly. He must’ve been truly worried, Dorian thinks, feeling overwhelmingly guilty. He takes a sip of his coffee to try and drown the feeling.

“Do you usually do that? Leave afterwards?”

“Well, yes,” Dorian admits, nodding and waving his hand in the air. “It is my _modus operandi_ , which is partly why I didn’t even think twice about not leaving my phone number or e-mail behind for you. Usually not leaving any sort of contact is a deliberate and conscious decision, but this time it was just... automatic. Muscle memory, you might say.”

Bull’s grin gets wider, and he leans closer to Dorian over the table. “Are you saying you enjoyed the evening enough to consider breaking one of your personal rules, or are you just saying that to flatter me?”

Dorian scoffs. “ _Please_ , with arms like that and a face such as yours your _mirror_ must flatter you every day, let alone _other people_. A man such as you hardly needs buttering up.”

Dorian says it with charm, but he means every word. Sure, Bull has scars, some even rather painful-looking, but they hardly take away his handsome features; on the contrary, they rather add to them. And the fact that he’s a qunari is just the cherry atop a scrumptious cake; his thick grey skin, the endless expanse of hard muscles under soft curves, and of course the sheer broadness of his body that takes Dorian’s breath away whenever he thinks of it, are all pieces that come together to make a gorgeous puzzle of a man. However, to Dorian’s surprise, Bull’s smile falters at his words, and his cheeks seem to redden just slightly, a hardly seen thing under his grey skin. Bull reaches behind his neck and awkwardly fiddles with the straps of his silver eyepatch as he thinks of what to say.

It makes Dorian wonder if Bull ever gets compliments on his appearance.

“Heh. Well, either way, I’m flattered. But I wish I could’ve taken you out for breakfast or something that day. It was the least I could do to thank you,” he says, lifting his cup, and Dorian smiles.

“Please, _I_ should be the one thanking _you_. And again, I do apologize for rushing off. At least we’re now having coffee together, aren’t we? Better late than never, as I always say to all of my teachers.”

“This doesn’t count though, you paid for your own coffee!”

“These are modern times, Bull. Both parts are now expected to share the bill, it’s only fair.”

At that Bull smiles, his eye crinkling at the corner. “True, true,” he agrees, taking another bite of his pastry. “So how’s our impromptu coffee date going so far?”

“You’ve set the bar pretty high after that first night we had, I must say. Which means you’ll always have to work extra hard to live up to my expectations; I am so very high maintenance, you see.”

“In that case, I’ll try and do my best.”

They finish their coffees, exchange phone numbers, and Dorian excuses himself because, unfortunately, he really does need to finish his assignment or his teacher will rip out his liver, or do something equally as bloody. Bull laughs and wishes him good luck as he lets him go, saying he doesn’t want to have to donate half of his liver to Dorian just yet.

As Dorian makes his way back to his apartment he sees a message on his phone - under the recently-added name “Bull”.

Dorian chuckles at the silly emoji.

Dorian’s typing the address for his apartment when the front door opens. He looks up, blinks, and sees himself face-to-face with a disgruntled Felix.

“ _Fuck_ , Dorian, where the shit were you?! I was about to go look for you!”

“Look for... me?” Dorian asks, hesitant, then checks the time on his phone.

Oh.

He’s been gone for over forty minutes.

“The coffee shop’s five minutes away, you said you were going to be back as quickly as possible, where--”

Dorian’s phone pings. Felix looks down at it.

Ever-so-slowly, a grin begins to appear on his lips, and he crosses his arms.

“Who’s texting you, Dorian?”

“No one,” Dorian says, petulantly, going around Felix to enter their shared apartment. Felix closes the door behind them as Dorian pockets his phone.

“Uh-huh. Suuure. And that’s why you haven’t thrown out your empty cup of coffee, even though you must’ve passed about three trash cans on your way here.”

“Shut up, Felix, _Maker_.”

“ _Four_ , if you count the one on the kitchen!”

Dorian throws the cup into the kitchen trash can without even looking. It goes in perfectly, hitting the metallic bottom with a loud _clang_. Felix starts laughing uncontrollably.

“Happy now?”

“Dorian, you know I will not be happy until you introduce me to him.”

Dorian groans. “Felix, _please_. There’s no one to introduce, we’re just fucking.”

“Funny, because you just spent a lot of time getting coffee with a guy you’re _just fucking_ , Dorian.”

 _Little shit_ , Dorian thinks, fuming.

What are friends for if not for annoying the life out of you though.

Dorian sighs, leans against the doorframe of his room. “ _Fine._ I’ll make you a deal,” he says, pointing to Felix. Felix just keeps on smiling goofily. “If, and that’s a _big_ if, Bull and I ever become anything more than fuck buddies, which won’t happen and you know why--”

“And you also know how I feel about _that_ , don’t you?”

“No one asked you. Anyway, if that ever happens, I promise you’ll be the first person I’ll tell. I won’t even tell Bull if I haven’t told you yet.”

“That sounds rude though, doesn’t it? Also what kind of name is that?!”

“The name of an one-eyed, seven feet tall qunari that could easily pass for an underwear model, with that _bulge_ –”

“ _Tee-Em-Eye_!” Felix shouts over Dorian’s words, putting both palms over his ears, and Dorian laughs. “Why, Dorian, _why_.”

“That’s what you get, now either you help me with the next part of my thesis or you let me finish it.”

“Yeah, no, good luck with that. Call me when you want help with your love life, though, that’s always fun.”

Dorian rolls his eyes as he closes the door, but smiles. He and Felix have been friends for so long this kind of teasing and bantering is more than standard. Living with his company has been more than delightful, and when he feels melancholic he stops and thinks he’ll miss those days once they’re gone.

And they’ll be gone too soon for his liking, enough that he’s considered flunking something just so he can extend his stay in college.

Dorian shakes his head, sits down on his desk, sighs, and focuses back on his assignment.

One thing at a time; no other way to go about it.


	2. (then) you're my friend

By the time weekend rolls around, Dorian is exhausted. It’s a rare Saturday in that he has no classes scheduled, but despite this he knows this is a day he should most certainly use to work on some of his accumulated assignments, maybe write two thousand words or so on his thesis, read those thirty pages that his teacher assigned them to read until next tuesday.

But he can’t bring himself to do anything besides lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting down how many days he has left until graduation. And then how many days he has after that. If in his head it sounds like he’s counting down the days to his death it’s because in his heart he knows the whole ordeal will be the death of him, even though he repeatedly tells himself it won’t be, not really, and that he’s just being overdramatic.

There are worse things, surely, than what his future holds for him. He’d live through it.

Still, somehow, he cannot shake off how _wrong_ it feels.

Dorian gets up at about ten, feeling sore and depressed, his head too full with rampant thoughts that won’t leave him alone no matter how much he tries. He brushes his teeth, goes to the building's gym, runs faster than he knows he should on an empty stomach, then pulls as much weight as he can bear. By the end of his impulsive exertions he’s shaking and hurting all over and feels so hungry he could eat the drywall.

He goes back up the stairs, and immediately sees a sticky note on the fridge from Felix, saying he’s gone to a group study and will be back later. Dorian smiles, drinks three glasses of fresh water, then tears into a loaf of creamy coconut bread, but not even that manages to lift his spirits. He sheds all his clothes in the bathroom and turns on the taps, letting the bathtub fill up with steaming water as he gets a glass of wine from the kitchen and his phone from his bedroom. He knows he shouldn't have alcohol with a nearly empty stomach, but the prospect of getting drunk that much quickly and forgetting about all of his responsibilities has never sounded sweeter.

The tub’s filled with foamy bubbles by the time he goes back. He settles in, laying his head back against the tub’s cushion and gently setting his wine glass on the edge of the tub. He exhales and closes his eyes, letting the warm water unravel the knots in the muscles of his body.

Next thing he knows, his phone is ringing. _Loudly_.

Dorian startles, opening his eyes just in time to see his glass tumbling into the lukewarm water, the red wine turning the already cloudy water pink. He looks to the side and sees his mobile ringing next to his head outside the tub, right where he last left it, and he wipes his pruny fingers on a towel he set aside before picking it up.

“Hello?” He mumbles into the receiver as he slowly gets up and off the tub, wincing at how much colder it is outside the water.

“Hey Dorian! It’s Bull! I hope it’s okay that I called, you weren’t answering my messages. Are we still up for tonight?”

 _Shit_.

“Oh, uh, of course. I apologize, the week was so stressful I’m afraid I accidentally fell asleep.” He dries off quickly, pulls the plug on the tub, then looks up at a wall clock.

 _Three-thirty_. He napped for three and a half hours. His neck hurts, his back screams in pain, and he looks like a brown raisin.

And he has a date in less than three hours.

 _Fantastic_.

“Oh, do you want to reschedule? It’s ok if you’re tired.”

“No, please. Two weeks we were looking for each other, if I have to wait until when I’m not actually tired enough to take a nap at any given time of the day we’ll be waiting until after I graduate, and I have no intentions of waiting until then to see you again.”

There’s a throaty chuckle on the other side of the line that sends shivers up Dorian’s spine. “Fair enough. Can I pick you up at six still?”

“Six sounds perfect. Again, I apologize. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you,” Bull says, and hangs up.

 _Right_. Dorian takes a deep breath, looking down at himself again, his stomach rumbling, clearly displeased with how small the sweet bread was. Thankfully he never had a chance to drink from that glass of wine, so he feels sober and alert, and the bath did manage to restore some of his energies, despite the fact that he still hurts from the gym. But no matter; he’s had to work himself into looking impeccable with hangovers that felt worlds worse than how he feels right now. He can bear a little muscle pain.

The wax warms up while he jumps under the scalding shower, washing himself with his best soaps, oils, and shampoo, then scrubbing himself with a loofah that leaves his skin impossibly soft. Once he’s out, he applies the warm wax to his chest, navel, and thighs, ripping the little hair he has in these areas, finishing it up by rubbing himself with an after-waxing oil that removes any residue wax and diminishes the overall redness on his skin. He then applies his favorite moisturizer all over his body, a light shea butter with particles of shimmer that makes him glow, then goes to the sink to dry his hair, applying a cream that should make it softer. Finally Dorian moves to his room, picks an outfit, changes his mind, picks another, decides on a third one. Once he’s dressed, he sits on his vanity to apply hair gel and makeup.

Felix walks in at around five-forty-five to find Dorian with his feet propped up on the table, painting his toenails black. He gives a low whistle and drops his duffel on the dining table.

“Looking good, Dori! What’s the occasion?”

Dorian shrugs, dipping the brush back onto the polish. “I’m going out with someone.”

“And you’re being meticulously careful with your toenails. That tells me you don’t plan on keeping your shoes on for too long.”

“ _Yes_ , Felix, I have every intention of finishing this evening either atop or under my handsome date, no shoes included. Happy now?”

“Oh, yes, thrilled,” Felix chuckles, then sits next to Dorian, careful not to shake his hand and make him smudge his meticulous work. He’s silent for a few seconds, until he speaks lowly, pensive. “You know, I’ve seen you get one-off lays, but I haven’t seen you go on an actual date in a really long time. If ever, actually.”

Dorian knows this; he’s thought about this fact at least a dozen times over ever since he agreed on having this dinner. But it’s nothing, he tells himself. Just a formality that they’ll go through before they tumble into bed again. Nothing wrong with that, in Dorian’s book.

“Your point?” He asks, looking askew at Felix, who shrugs.

“Nothing, just saying. I’d love to meet this date of yours someday.”

“Dorian sighs heavily. “Felix, I am not introducing you to my fuck-buddy.”

“Sure you’re not. But maybe when he’s your boyfriend...?”

“ _Felix_.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you to get ready for your date.” Felix gets up, chuckling, then moves on to his room. “Have fun, Dori.”

Dorian smiles, shakes his head. He finishes his nails with a quick dry top coat spray and waits until the door rings to put on his shoes.

Honestly, he understands where Felix’s coming from; he doesn’t think he’s ever been to a proper date in his entire life either. Not that this is an actual, proper date. This could just be them going into a bar, having a few drinks, maybe eating some peanuts before moving on to the good part of the evening.

The intercom rings after about thirty minutes, and soon after, he gets a ping on his phone, signaling a message. He checks who it is, thinking it’s Bull, heart sinking when he sees it’s not. After a half a second of hesitation Dorian swipes his finger over the message, discarding the notification as if it never was.

He puts his socks and shoes on, pockets his phone, wallet, and keys, and walks out the door.

 

\---

 

When Dorian walks through the building's gate, Bull whistles lowly. A long, black overcoat goes over a cardigan that’s covering a plain white shirt, and over that a scarf that wraps around his neck. Skinny jeans hug his thighs and calf, and a pair of heavy boots hide the ankle of his pants. Dorian’s hair is slicked back and shining, and he has such an air of confidence it looks like he’s walking a runway. If he hadn’t talked to the guy for an hour or two that one time he would be sure he worked as a top-model.

It’s sexy as fuck.

Bull opens the passenger door of his car and Dorian promptly steps up and settles onto his seat, lifting a brow at the panel.

“Nice car you have,” he says, closing the door, and Bull smiles, running his hand over the matte finish on the on-board computer.

“Thanks. She’s my pride and joy. I bought her after I left my old job.”

“Your old job must’ve paid well,” Dorian comments, nodding. “Why’d you leave it to major in botany?”

A prickle runs down the back of Bull’s neck. He thinks of his old life, of how he left, and it makes his stomach turn. Although at first he’d probably do anything to be accepted again, right now not even all the money in the world could convince him to go back to it. He takes a deep breath in silence, careful not to let his nervousness show as he starts driving out of Dorian’s curb.

“I’ll tell you someday,” Bull lies. He has no intention of telling Dorian, a guy who’s probably with him until he gets his fill, just like everyone else is. He’s okay with this arrangement, but it also means he has zero intentions of telling Dorian about what he calls his previous life. “Today I wanna focus on you, if that’s ok. I know a place nearby I think you’ll like.”

Dorian, again, nods and lets the subject drop; if he’s upset for the evasion he doesn’t let it show. Again it surprises Bull; most people would insist some more before giving up, maybe try and prod and poke to see if with a bit of teasing they could get Bull to lighten up and share some of his life history. In truth it’s not that he doesn't want people to know who he was, it’s more that thinking and talking about what he’s gone through is too heavy and personal a subject to be sharing with complete strangers he meets to fuck once or twice. It’s not a very sexy subject either, as it is.

They both spend the drive to the restaurant in a comfortable silence; Bull flicks on the radio, connecting his phone via bluetooth, and the first music that plays is a smooth Antivan classic, which is a pleasant surprise. Dorian smiles softly, looking out the window as he mouths the words to the song and Bull taps his fingertips against the steering wheel to the rhythm.

They arrive at a secluded place not too far off from Dorian’s apartment about five minutes later. It’s a small restaurant, its outer walls made of raw stone, and lamps onto the outside of the building throw a warm glow to the tables nearby, making them look inviting. Dorian lifts a brow and smiles at Bull once he sees the building. They park the car, Dorian stepping down from his side like he’s floating down to the sidewalk, and a woman at the door guides them to a small table near the kitchens.

The restaurant is nice; not too fancy to be intimidating and not too casual to be inadequate for an intimate night out. They quickly receive menus, which they quietly look at as Dorian suggests dishes he says he hasn’t had before.

“So you’ve been here before,” Bull says as the waiter takes away their menus, and Dorian hums as he sips on his water.

“Felix and I enjoy this place very much. It truly is hard to find a restaurant in this blighted city that doesn’t serve pretentious food.”

Bull laughs, taking care to not be too loud. “Fuck, yeah. Orlesians can cook sweets pretty well, but I feel like only the seriously expensive restaurants serve decent food.”

“Indeed. Have you ever had cream sioux? The chocolate and cream one that they serve here is Felix’s favorite. He once ordered it twice, got sick from overeating, but ‘till this day he says he’d do it all over again.”

Bull smiles. “Is this Felix fella a friend of yours?”

“Not just a friend, but _the_ friend. Felix is my best friend and current roommate. He’s studying advanced calculus, dreams of being a scholar. It’s his life passion. He’s set to graduate this year as well, and then we’ll both vacate our dear apartment.”

“You sound bittersweet.”

“Ah, yes, well.” Dorian sets his glass on the table and leans back on his seat, sighing tiredly. “This time in college, although stressful, has been the best I’ve ever had. I enjoy Felix’s company and support, and I’m sure I’ll look back upon these years of freedom and miss them dearly.”

“Freedom?” Bull asks, and immediately Dorian tenses; he schools his expression into something neutral and casual, but Bull can see he’s biting his tongue, as if he'd let slip something he didn’t mean or want to say.

“But please, enough of this depressing subject, I’m sure Felix would not appreciate knowing we’ve been talking about him during our dinner. Tell me of you. Handsome man such as yourself, I imagine you were born and raised in the north such as I. Have you gotten used to the cold yet? Because I’ve been here for nearly five years and I _still_ can’t stand it.”

Again they fall into idle chat to avoid uncomfortable subjects. Bull feels like it’s becoming a recurrent theme with the two of them, like they’re constantly sidestepping away from traps and tip toeing their way when it comes to more personal matters. Bull doesn’t blame Dorian; he’s also hesitant at times to overshare. But often the reason to do so is literally stamped all over his face, in the scars that line his every expression. People usually don’t bother asking because they always end up assuming, and Bull never really knows which is worse. He wonders what Dorian, perfect and poised and sweet guy Dorian, has gone through that is so bad he looks like he’s swallowed a frog at the mere mention of his personal life.

Dinner goes without a hitch. Dorian doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave, although he keeps running the tip of his shoe along Bull’s calf while he’s in the middle of telling a story that happened the week before in one of the classes he takes, and every now and then he’ll slowly put food in his mouth while keeping eye contact with Bull, with a look so hot he could melt ice caps with it.

By the time they finish dessert and Dorian licks a thumb when the waiter’s not looking, Bull’s feeling his pants much more uncomfortable than they were when he put them on a couple of hour ago.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, and Dorian grins, knowing exactly how he’s affecting Bull.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says in a sultry purr that sends chills down Bull’s spine.

He barely remembers paying for dinner and getting to the car. He drives straight to his own place, and Dorian places a warm, warm hand on his thigh as he drives, his touch gentle and promising. For a moment Bull thinks he’s going to try and open his fly, maybe fondle the quite obvious bulge he’s sporting, but all he does is keep his hand there, not even pressing down, just _there_ , taunting Bull and making him burn from the inside.

Dorian hums at the sight of Bull’s tiny suburban house, with its well-kept garden up front lit up by lanterns.

“Last time I was here I barely paid any attention to these,” he says, brushing his fingers on the leaves of a bush as they walk past it. “But it is a truly impressive collection. You have beautiful plants; I can see you care for them very much.”

“I tend to do that with all the things I like.”

Dorian hums, and Bull lets him brush past him and into his living room. Immediately Dorian pushes his jacket off his shoulders and pulls his scarf from his neck as slowly as possible, and Bull just stands beside the open door, staring unashamedly.

“Is this why you treat me so well?”

 _It is_ , Bull thinks, grinning, but something inside his chest warms and tightens with the thought, so he dares not say it out loud. Lets the question hang in the air between them as he strokes Dorian’s cheek, traces the back of his fingers down his neck and makes him shiver and moan with just that slight caress. It truly is a gorgeous sight; Dorian is one of the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on, and he has no idea how he’s so lucky to be here, alone with him, all for himself for a second night.

They quickly move to the bedroom, discarding their clothes – with plenty of help from each other – on the way there. They’re both naked by the time Dorian falls onto the bed, where he stretches languidly, pushing the sheets with the tip of his toes and brushing the wooden headboard with his fingers. A shiver runs through Bull at the blatant display; Dorian knows all of his angles, all of his strong suits, and most importantly he knows how _good_ he looks; the muscles of his stomach stretched, the dips of his pubic bone jutting out as he curves his back, his nipples perked as he pushes his chest out. Dorian smirks under the attention, a hand running down his neck and clavicle, dipping over his navel and following the fine hair of his pelvis, and then framing his cock with splayed fingers, hips pushing further up and off the bed as he presses the heels of his feet on the mattress and lets his mouth fall open in a small moan.

“Well? Will you just stand there and stare or will you join me on the bed?” Dorian asks, his voice low and sultry, smooth as velvet. Bull closes his mouth, swallows, and steps closer, slowly and carefully, as if he were approaching a wild animal that he doesn’t want to startle. He runs a hand down one of Dorian’s arms, pushing down the hair that’s standing on end there, and Dorian hums, shivers.

“Y’cold?”

“A little. I _am_ a hothouse orchid, after all. Or so I’ve been told.”

Exotic and beautifully rare. Bull appreciates the comparison.

“Let me warm you up, then,” he says, climbing onto the bed and framing Dorian’s body with his own. Dorian exhales shakily, arms folding at the narrow space between them to rest both of his palms over each of Bull’s pectorals, some of his confidence melting away to give way to pure and unbidden need.

“Gladly.”

The evening ends up being even better than the first; they unhurriedly come together, wrapped around each other, mouths constantly busy and the cold efficiently warded away. Dorian again stays the night and excuses himself in the morning, and as Bull watches Dorian dress up and leave with a smile on his face and a charming wiggle of his fingers, Bull positively _glows_ with glee.

It doesn’t surprise Bull that they keep in touch after that, texting each other almost every day and talking about their classes and what kind of food they miss from the north and whatever else comes to mind, nor when Dorian comes back for thirds not a week later, armed with an amazing take-out dinner from a Rivaini place and a gorgeous set of lacy lingerie under his clothes. It does surprise him, however, when Bull finds himself daydreaming and yearning for Dorian during one of his tests, while he’s trying to figure out the answer to a capricious trick question. He doesn’t usually lust after people he’s been with like this; sure, he remembers fondly, and he sometimes masturbates while reminiscing about past lays, but he’s never actively considered seeking out a person after they’ve apparently had their share. It’s a weird feeling that takes Bull by surprise; he doesn’t exactly welcome it, but he also doesn’t mind it as much as he feels he should. He just has to forget about it and move on, he tells himself, as he’s done so many times before.

But as he hands over the test and checks his phone for any missed calls, he sees a new text from Dorian:

Bull recognizes a booty call when he sees one. He grins, chuckles, and replies.

And thus three become four, until four becomes five just a few days later, which in turns becomes six, all in the span of a single week. They go to a motel for the seventh, spending the entire day that they should be using to study making fun of how stupid they look on the ceiling mirror – that is, when they’re not busy or just tuned out in complete bliss. The eight time is a quickie at a bathroom between classes, and the ninth is in the library, taking a break from studying (together) for their finals in between the back shelves that no one ever checks. And after that–

–well, after that Bull stops counting.

And that’s around the time when he knows this isn’t just a booty call anymore. When he thinks Dorian’s cheek mole is charming instead of sexy, when he finds that he loves his mussed up mustache come morning or after a heated make-out, when he starts inviting Dorian over to study so frequently he starts leaving books, pencils, and papers strewn all over his dinner table.

Krem notices said books when he comes over and gives Bull a shit-eating grin.

“I know these don’t describe a way to better care for a fern,” he says, picking up and waving one of Dorian’s thicker books in the air before plopping it back down with the others. Bull laughs awkwardly.

“Yeah, uh. That’s why I called you, actually. Wanted to talk about... _that_.”

Krem lifts a brow. “What, you’re changing majors or something?”

“No, no. You were right the first time, actually, these are, well. A friend’s.”

Krem lifts a single brow. “A _friend’s_.”

“Yeah, uh. A really good friend, actually. Met him at that frat party, remember? Two months ago. We’ve, uh... hung out a lot. He’s a cool guy.”

“You’ve... _hung out_. Uh huh.”

“Okay, fine. We’ve been sleeping together for the last two months.”

“There we go,” Krem laughs, leaning back against the wall. “Two months, though? That’s a really long time for you, chief. Never seen you stick with someone for so long.”

Bull laughs. “Me neither. And I really like this guy, Krem, I really do. And I want you and the boys to meet him.”

He remember telling Dorian, during their first dinner together, that he’d tell him someday about his life before college. Back then it was an excuse to get him to drop the subject. A white lie.

Now he means to go forth with the promise, and it scares him more than he can say.

Krem widens his eyes at the realization. “Fuck, you _really_ do like him.”

“Yup. So, what do you say? The Crowing Rooster, this friday, at seven?”

Krem pauses, crosses his arms. A thoughtful look crosses his features, but eventually, he nods.

“Only if you tell me more about him.”

Bull smiles. “That I can do.”


	3. (and) think about (how) the things were right

“How do you feel about meeting my boys?”

The question comes in the morning, as Dorian’s fixing his hair in front of Bull’s bathroom mirror and Bull’s just coming out of the shower. It never looks the same without his various products, but it’s better than going back to his apartment before heading to class. Getting distracted right after waking up made them both relatively late to class, but Dorian is far from regretting it. If a less-than-perfect hair is his punishment for having great morning sex, then he’ll gladly accept it.

“Your boys?” Dorian asks, lifting a brow and turning to Bull. “When you say it like that, Bull, it makes me wonder if you’re secretly a pimp.”

Bull laughs, then takes the towel from around his waist to rub his ears. The sight of his naked hips, the soft cock hanging between his thighs, his firm ass as he turns around to look through his drawers – Dorian’s mouth waters, and he turns back to the mirror to do his eyeliner before they get _distracted_ again; they’ll certainly miss the entire day of classes should they do so.

“They’re my friends, but we’re more like a family really. We’re planning a night out next week, and it’d be awesome if you could come.”

Dorian looks back at Bull, eyeliner half done. He sounds so... _earnest_. Eager, even. And he has this _soft_ look in his face as he looks back at Dorian, almost as if dreading the answer that is to come.

“Will Krem be there?”

Bull blinks, looking a bit taken back, probably not expecting the question. “Uh, yes, of course. He’s definitely going to be there.”

“Good.” Dorian finishes lining his eye with a  flourish, capping the eyeliner. “You talk about him so much, I am rather intrigued to finally meet him. Just tell me the place and time and I will gladly join you and your group of misfits.”

Bull smiles widely for an instance, then schools his expression to something more neutral. “Cool,” he says, pulling on the pants he’d been holding for a couple of minutes now. Dorian grins fondly. “I’ll text you the address, is that okay?”

“Of course. Thank you, Bull.”

They finish dressing up, then make their way to the campus side by side, fingers brushing occasionally, as they did the first day when they left the frat party gothether. And all the way through a joke about _meeting the family so soon_ is at the tip of Dorian’s tongue, but he never voices it out, suddenly upset with the idea that he’ll never _actually_ get to meet his family as it were, and ask for their blessing.

It is impossible to bless a relationship doomed to end so soon, after all.

 

\---

 

Dorian walks into the Crowing Rooster on saturday at the appointed time almost warily. A bunch of gruff and burly men gather at the very front of the entrance door, talking loudly and drinking, and a jukebox glows happily on his right. To the left he sees a few tables in the dim bar floor, next to a wall of dart targets. He steps forward hesitantly, wondering if he’s got the right place, when he finally spots Bull sitting on the only occupied table, his broad shoulders and wide smile almost comfortable to Dorian. Bull lifts his right hand and waves, ushering him over.

“Dorian! I’m so glad you came!” Bull says, his hand moving down towards Dorian’s own; for a second Dorian thinks Bull’s going to hold it, maybe squeeze it affectionately, but at the last second he places his open palm over Dorian’s arm in a gentle touch. Dorian feels a pang deep in his chest, and he can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment. “These are my boys! That’s Stitches, Rocky, Dalish, Skinner, Grim, and Krem. Boys, this is Dorian, that friend I’ve been telling you about.”

Dorian looks around; the people in the table seem to be of all ages, races, and genders, despite Bull calling them all “boys”. Stitches and Grim seem to be the oldest, Stitches a bald and cheerful Fereldan with skin several tones darker than Dorian’s, and Grim a blonde blue-eyed Orlesian with a bored frown on his face. Dalish is an elf with green vallaslin and platinum blonde hair, and the other elf next to her, Skinner, glares daggers at Dorian, her short, brown hair shaved on the opposite side of Dalish’s own undercut. Rocky, a dwarf with a dark beard and burn scars on one of his cheeks, grunts and raises his beer in acknowledgment.

And, of course, there’s Krem, who Dorian’s heard of multiple times, although only in passing; he’s Bull’s best friend and his right-hand man for all intents and purposes. He looks at Dorian with a careful eye and his lips pressed together. Calculating.

In fact, Dorian feels like he’s being evaluated by every single person on this table. Maybe he _is_ meeting the family, after all.

Better make a good impression, then.

“It is very nice to finally meet you all,” Dorian says, effectively hiding his nervousness, bowing slightly by the waist before sitting down on the empty chair next to Bull, which he pulls back so he can join him on the table. “I’m most curious to get to know the people who hang out with Bull.”

“And we’re curious to know who finally slowed this heartbreaker down!” Rocky says, making Dalish giggle and Krem crack a grin. Bull laughs along awkwardly.

“Well, I can imagine Bull must be really popular with both the ladies _and_ the lads,” Dorian says, looking at Bull from the corner of his eye. Bull blushes, ducks his head and rubs his ear, just as he usually does when Dorian showers him with compliments. It’s endearing. “So how did you all know each other?”

“Bull was our captain in the military,” Stitches says, and although Dorian tries to avoid it, his brows go up towards his hairline; if only he had a fringe they would’ve vanished beneath them.

“Yup,” Bull says next to him, making Dorian turn his attention to him. “Krem was my Lieutenant, and these guys were the best of the best in my company. Went with me through hell and back.”

“Oh, wow.” That explains the scars, Dorian thinks, remembering how many Bull has, some deep and others shallow, not to mention the missing fingers in his hand and the ragged lines under his silver eyepatch, something he’s never seen him without. “How long did you serve for?”

“Since I was sixteen, and until about five years ago.” So nine years, Dorian thinks, impressed. “I was dismissed during the Inquisition war.”

“You served under the Inquisition?!” Dorian exclaims, genuinely surprised, and Bull grunts.

“Not exactly. When I first joined the Inquisition I was still serving under Par Vollen’s army, so I fought _with_ them. I was tasked with infiltrating the south after being seen as unfit to continue to serve in Seheron.”

_Seheron?!_

It’s a lot more info on Bull that Dorian has had in all the two whole months they’ve been sleeping together; it makes his head spin, and he has no idea where all of this is coming from, but he tries his best not to show it. He’s thankful when the waitress brings him a beer, which he quickly takes a sip of to hide how overwhelmed he feels.

“Did they dismiss you after you...” Dorian starts, gesturing to his eye where Bull’s own is missing. Next to Bull Krem snorts, unamused.

“He actually lost it two years before the Inquisition, when he met me. Par Vollen _gently suggested_ he hang his towel, but I know that you’ve heard of how Par Vollen is when it comes to their military. If a soldier says they’re okay, they just let them push on. Slap a band-aid on it. As long as the job is being done, they don’t really give a shit about their soldiers’ well-being.”

Dorian widens his eyes. “I thought that was just bad propaganda Tevinter spread.”

“I wish it was,” Stitches says, snorting. “I patched Bull up more times than I can remember until he finally got used to his blind side. He was always stubborn, this one.”

“We all served under Par Vollen’s army for the years we were serving with the chief,” Dalish says, then she shivers as if disgusted. “Ruthless, they were. We never stood down for the chief’s sake, and we were all dismissed as soon as he was too. Would’ve left even if they hadn’t told us to leave though.”

It’s just so much to take in. A Ferelden, an Orlesian, a dwarf, two elves and a Tevinter national, all serving under a qunari Captain. _Under_ _Par Vollen’s army_. Together in Skyhold, fighting for the Inquisition. Dorian knew they had people from all places and nationalities together in that war, but he never knew...

Suddenly he remembers walking among the streets of Ferelden, alone, desperate, tired and hungry and hopeless. He remembers seeing a sign taped to a light post, telling people to join the Inquisition, and remembers immediately thinking that no one would ever accept a Tevinter disgrace such as him. What would have happened had he joined, though? Begged for refuge in exchange for his research knowledge? His ancient languages skills? What if–

Bull touches his shoulder, startling him. He’s looking at him, worried.

“You okay?” He asks, and Dorian smiles weakly, trying to brush it off.

“Ah, yes. I just... keep thinking of you, fighting that war,” Dorian lies, smiling shyly and deciding to give away at least part of the truth. “To be quite honest, I briefly considered joining the Inquisition, and now, knowing how _diverse_ the people fighting in it were, I wish I had.”

A sad and dark looks crosses Bull’s features, and he shakes his head. “I’m glad you didn’t, Dorian. War changes people, and not always for the best.”

“Maybe,” Dorian whispers, looking down at his phone and the notification of yet another missed call. He ignores it with a swipe of his thumb, and not a moment later the waiter brings in a huge plate of fried chicken bits for the table to share, and conversation flows away from morbid subjects.

They talk about life after the war, and seem to not shy away from telling Dorian whatever it is he asks about. He discovers they were all officially recruited by the Inquisition army when Bull was dismissed from the Par Vollen’s, and everyone got honourable dismissals after the war was over, which meant good retirement plans and nice advantages that they’ll carry on later in life. Right now they’re all working in different places: Rocky is an explosives specialist at a demolition company, Dalish just recently opened a bow and arrow cafe in the next city over, Skinner works in a butcher shop, Stitches retook his studies in medicine as soon as he regained his civilian status, Grim is a bouncer at a famous club downtown, and Krem works as a sewing mistress’ apprentice.

“Don’t wanna be a designer or anything,” Krem says when Dorian shows himself pleasantly surprised in his choice of career. “Army gave us all plenty of money to do whatever we felt like doing, career-wise, and I always had a knack for sewing. This apprenticeship is really helping me get better, you know? I want to be able to sew my own clothes, and maybe in a few years I can open an adjustments shop. And maybe I can sell plushies, too.”

Dorian nods and raises his bottle in salute. Krem clinks the necks together. “May you learn as much as you can, then. I hope it works out for you. For all of you.”

Bull pulls Dorian over to one of the darts targets not long after. Dorian admits to having never played it, and Bull writes down both their names on the whiteboard, explaining quickly how the points are added up. Dorian throws three darts, testing the waters, and actually manages to hit all three of them in nice spots on the board. Bull smiles proudly and writes the points down as his first score.

“So, how _did_ the army convince you to retire?” Dorian asks casually as he plucks off his own darts from the board as Bull adds up his points. “If even losing an eye wasn’t enough, I can’t see you agreeing on leaving so soon, and especially not in the middle of a war of all things.”

Bull huffs, brows furrowing as he puts the pen down and walks back to the marking on the floor, lifting his own darts as he aims at the board.

“They didn’t.” The first dart flies, and Dorian lifts a brow, confused. “Convince me to retire, that is. They kicked me out.”

Dorian widens his eyes. Bull sees it from the corner of his peripheral vision and chuckles. “Yup. That’s the usual reaction alright.”

“What _happened_?” Dorian asks, gently, as Bull throws the second dart. It sinks in all the way to the root. “You don’t have to tell me if you don't want to, Bull. It’s alright.”

“No, I... want to tell you.”

Dorian waits patiently as Bull gulps, fiddling with the last dart in his hand. Sighs heavily.

“Okay, so here’s the thing: I wasn’t just a Captain. I was also a spy. And a damn good one, too. They assigned me for a year in Par Vollen, but when they realized how good I was, they quickly transferred me to Seheron. I was seventeen then. Spent six years in that place, got promoted through the ranks quickly, slowly losing my goddamn mind with so much death and helplessness every day. I was good, but Seheron is a trainwreck. It needs a few miracles to get out of the hole both Par Vollen and Tevinter buried it in. So one day, four years after the recommended maximum time for deployment, a man in my troop was killed, and I snapped.”

“So they sent you to the Inquisition instead?”

“Not at first.” He throws the last dart: it bullseyes. Bull doesn’t even react; he just walks forward to the whiteboard to write down his points. “They wanted me to go to the south, watch whatever and whoever I could, send back reports of anything of interest I might see. I ended up joining a small platoon, pretending to be a Qun runaway seeking for refuge, but when the Captain of that team showed to be too much of a knucklehead I bailed, and a few of my guys came with me. Stitches, Grim and Rocky. We’d heard of the war, and we were going down to the Ferelden-Orlais border to check it out, offer our help, when I met Krem. Cornered by some Tevinter soldiers in a shitty bar at the Tevinter border, about to die for being a deserter, with a broken glass bottle to his neck.” He points to his eye, grinning. “Took the blow for him and lost the eye. Worth it, though. We’ve been like flesh and nail ever since.”

“A worthy trade indeed,” Dorian comments, also grinning to try and lighten the mood; he steps back just as Bull finishes removing his darts from the board, and flicks all three of his own darts in quick succession; two of them hit the “times three” area. Bull whistles.

“Damn. I’m beginning to think you were lying about this being your first time.”

“I’d never lie to you, Bull, you should know that by now,” Dorian drawls, making Bull laugh lowly.

After that, the evening goes on without a hitch. Dorian wins in the darts and they move to the pool table, where Krem joins them, Dalish and Stitches watching the three of them play. Krem wins the first round, and Dorian the second, Bull groaning about how he can’t win a single game this evening. They then spend a lot more money than they possibly should on the jukebox machine, and sing along to the songs as the night wears on.

Dorian and Bull leave together sometime after eleven, Bull waving goodbye to his friends as Dorian bows once more, reminding them how nice it has been to meet them all.

“I live just five blocks down,” Bull says as Dorian offers to split a cab with him.

“Oh, I’ll go with you then.”

Bull chuckles, leering a little closer to Dorian to flirt. “Are you offering to warm me up when we get there so my toes won’t fall off?”

It’d be a cute flirt for anyone else, but for Dorian it hits close to home; _way_ too close. Dorian stiffens, his mind reeling back and _remembering_ , and next to him he sees Bull’s grin fall, noticing Dorian’s change of posture. Before he can say anything Dorian forces his body to relax, just enough to show that he’s fine, and smiles at Bull.

“If your toes freeze and fall off it’s your own fault for wearing flip flops when it’s not summer in Orlais. Honestly, Bull, you’re from the north; you should know better than that.”

It may sound like a jab, but Dorian words it playfully, lets just one of his eyebrows rise and smiles impishly. Buyll chuckles and rubs his left horn.

“Alright, alright. I deserved that one.”

They keep walking down the empty street, the sound of their footsteps loud in the night, each other’s presence a comfort at the end of the evening, and Dorian slowly relaxes fully. They draw closer as they walk together, like a magnet, until their arms are brushing and their fingers tangling. The touch feels almost electric on Dorian’s skin, and only then he realizes how he’d been yearning for Bull’s touch, his warm and callused palm against his skin. He squeezes the hand quickly, like he wishes Bull would’ve done back when he first entered the bar.

Bull finally breaks the silence with an awkward cough and a sniff.

“I never finished telling you why I was thrown out of the Par Vollen army.”

He didn’t indeed, but Dorian didn’t really mind not knowing the exact reason. He’d seen how hard it was for Bull to talk about it, and he didn’t want to press it, especially after he’d told him so much, so he let the subject go; but apparently Bull doesn’t want to leave things done halfway through. Dorian looks up at him in silence as Bull mulls over and bites his lip.

“Basically they made me choose between sacrificing either my boys or a platoon of Qunari soldiers. I was told, as a spy, to pretend to be a southerner while away from home so I could blend in easily and not raise any suspicions, and I guess after a while they couldn't tell what was make believe and what was actually me. To be honest, I barely knew it myself. So they decided to test me, see where my loyalty lied. Set me up for a trap.”

Dorian leans closer, tangles both his arms with Bull’s. Bull grins, but Dorian feels his arm shake, just the tiniest bit.

“I chose my boys. It wasn’t easy, and at the same time it was the easiest decision I’d ever made in my life. I couldn’t let them die like that, not after all we’d been through. So they casted me out, like a pariah, and the Inquisitor decided to hire us instead. So this is why I have a nice car, a good house, but no job. It’s money from my retirement from the Inquisition and the years of accumulated service in the Par Vollen army. And deciding to start college was because I needed... to keep going with my life, you know? Find something after all that happened. Some _goal_. It was all I was, the Qun, the duty for the army, my certainty of my role and my purpose in life. When I lost it all... _fuck_. It really got to me.”

“Bull.” Dorian stops, puts his hands over Bull’s chest, makes him turn to him. Bull goes, but his forehead is created with worry. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I never minded not knowing, I thought you knew that.”

“But _I_ minded. I _wanted_ you to know. I wanted to tell you, I just... didn’t know how.”

So he called his friends, made a date out of it. Asked them to speak first. It all makes sense to Dorian, and it warms him to his core.

He remembers how he referenced Bull to Felix: _fuck-buddy._

One thing's for certain: they’re not fuck-buddies anymore. Probably haven’t been for a long time.

“Thank you. For telling me,” Dorian whispers, holding Bull by his nape and pulling him down for a kiss.

 

\---

 

It’s a clumsy few steps into Bull’s house. The kiss escalates until they can’t get enough of each other, until Dorian’s hands are roaming down Bull’s arms and he’s leaning in so their bodies are squished together. The front door closes behind them both and they tumble across the living room, falling over the couch, giggling into their kisses and the rutting against each other, until giggles become breathless gasps and ruts become thrusts.

They come together on the couch, then tiredly walk up to Bull’s room, where they kiss until their legs tangle, until the bed feels so comfortable leaving it is no longer an option.

Bull’s had his eyes closed for about five minutes, just listening to the sound of Dorian’s breathing, to the rhythm of his heartbeat, when he feels Dorian thumbing his left cheek in the dark.

“You never take off your eyepatch when we sleep together,” he says as a matter of fact. “Why?”

“Don’t want you to see it,” Bull says, whispering lowly, suddenly mildly uncomfortable.

“Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s not pretty.”

Dorian chuckles. “Bull, please.” Bull levels him with a stern look, and Dorian raises his hand in surrender. “Okay, fine, it’s probably not a masterpiece.” At that Bull laughs, but Dorian continues, softer, gentler. “But I don’t mind it. It can’t be comfortable sleeping with that thing on. I’ve seen the marks it leaves on your face in the morning.”

Bull takes a minute to think. Dorian’s right, of course; he _hates_ sleeping with his eyepatch, but he can count the fingers of his maimed hand the number of people who’s seen him without it. It’s not that he doesn’t want Dorian to see it, it’s just that, what if–

–what if he _leaves_?

“Please, Bull. Can I?” He asks, fingers slipping gently under the band of the elastic, and Bull hesitates again, but wordlessly ends up agreeing.

Dorian lifts himself up on his elbows and gently untangles the silver eyepatch from over the hollow of Bull’s face. Bull watches carefully, his eye already used to the darkness in the room, expecting right away a shocked expression, a slight widening of the eyes, maybe a sharp intake of breath – but instead none of that happens.

Instead, Dorian puts the eyepatch on the side table with a clink, looks down at Bull with pure adoration in his eyes, and leans down until his lips come in touch with the edge of the scar on his forehead, where his eyebrow used to be.

“Beautiful,” Dorian says with reverence, and for the first time in years, for the first time in so long he can’t remember when it last was...

Bull cries.


	4. (then) please don't go

Krem stops around to have dinner with Bull the next day, just the two of them. Bull cooks fresh noodles, makes spicy fried chicken, and Krem happily digs in. He tells Bull about his latest idea for a plushie and Bull talks about the classes he’s going to have the next day.

But Bull knows why he’s here for, and quickly Krem drops all pretense.

“So. Quite the hothouse orchid, that boyfriend of yours.”

Bull laughs; he remembers when Dorian himself made the comparison long before, under much different circumstances. “He’s not my _boyfriend_ , Krem.”

“But you wish he was.”

It’s not a question, so Bull doesn’t bother to answer. He knows lying to Krem doesn't ever go well. Krem lifts his hands, as if saying _my point exactly._

“It’s... complicated. Dorian’s been going through some stuff of his own, I can tell. He hasn’t told me what yet, and I don’t want to pressure him.”

Krem hums. “You have a really _blue_ orchid on your hands, huh chief?”

A moment passes, where they’re both quiet, and finally Bull laughs and slaps Krem on the shoulder as Krem hides his face in his hands. “I’m rubbing off on you, huh?” He says, jokingly, and Krem groans.

“You’re a bad influence, chief.”

Bull snorts, then takes another bite of his food, pensive. “Seriously though, he does sort of looks a bit like he’s carrying some heavy weight of all of the time. Like something’s constantly bothering him, and it’s not just college, you know?”

Krem scratches his chin. “And even so, you trust the guy. _Like_ him, even.”

Bull shrugs, sighs. “The heart wants what the heart wants, Krem-puff.”

“Ugh, it’s so weird hearing you, of all people, talk about _heart-stuff_. No offense.”

Bull shrugs. “None taken.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

Bull lifts his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s your next course of action?”

Bull rubs the base of his left horn and shrugs. “I... don’t have one.”

“That’s alright, this is what I’m here for.” Krem nods, fills his mouth with food, then gestures with his fork. “Here’s what you’re gonna do: talk to him.”

Bull lifts his brow, picks up his glass to take a sip. “Uh-huh. About _what_ , exactly?”

“About how great his ass is,” Krem replies, and Bull chokes on his water. “Don’t be fucking obtuse with me chief, you know what about. Talk. To. Him.”

Bull coughs and wipes his mouth, glaring at Krem. “Like it’s that simple?”

“Like it’s that simple.”

Bull grunts, shakes his head. It’s _never_ that simple. “You’re one to talk. It took you, what, six months to ask Lace on a date?”

“ _Yes_ , but we also left the date as boyfriend and girlfriend! You not only took Mr. Hothouse Orchid on _several_ dates, but you’ve probably done things with him and _to_ him in bed Lace and I only dreamed of trying after we’d been seeing each other for _months_.”

Bull sighs. He knows Krem’s right, but he also knows it’s not as easy as he’s making it sound. He’d give anything to have what Krem and Lace have, but he’s also scared of losing what he and Dorian have right now. What if they talk like Krem wants them to and Dorian breaks it off with him? What if he’s not in it for a serious relationship after all and the idea of one chases him away? Bull himself has never been in a romantic relationship before, never even considered it; the Qun doesn’t allow for romantic love amongst its followers, much less its soldiers and spies. And now, faced with the prospect of one, he’s downright terrified and unsure of what to do. In theory it’s all nice and dandy, but he knows things are nothing like in the movies.

“I’ll try to talk to him, Krem Puff,” he finally says, and Krem nods, satisfied, reaching for the water pitcher.

“Let me know if it goes badly, chief.”

“So you can dry my tears of sorrow and regret?”

“So Skinner and I can kick that fancy pant’s ass for not knowing what’s good to him, of course.”

Bull laughs. Clearly _that’s_ what friends are truly for.

 

\---

 

Dorian hates to have to admit when Felix’s right, because he can be downright obnoxious about it, but maybe, _just maybe_ – maybe he was right since day one.

Dorian _likes_ Bull. And it’s not that he likes him as a friend like he likes Maevaris, much less as a brother as he likes Felix, heaven forbid, _no_ – he _likes_ likes him. He repeats that to himself in his head and feels a bit childish with his choice of words, but they’re as close as he gets with what he’s feeling. He can’t bring himself to say something more profound, not yet. Maybe not ever.

Thing is, he _can’t_. He doesn’t have the luxury to do so; not anymore. Maybe if Bull had appeared in his life five or six years ago, back when he ran away – but it’s of no use wondering and wishing how things could’ve been. They weren’t, he made his decisions, and this is where he is now. He must deal with the aftermath of his choices and not blame anyone, not even fate itself, for how things turned out.

They’re both walking down campus, on their way to their afternoon classes as they have been doing nearly everyday for the last few weeks, discussing the plus and cons of the food they had for lunch (“I’m just saying Bull, maybe they could’ve used a bit more salt on the seasoning,” “But then you wouldn’t have _really_ tasted the red peppers!”) when all of a sudden Bull halts. Dorian looks up from his phone to stare at him, confused, when someone ahead of them clears their throat.

Dorian knows that fake cough from anywhere.

He puts on his mask of cool indifference and stares at the woman currently blocking their way.

“Livia,” he says, voice stone cold, and in response Livia turns up her nose at him.

“Dorian. Why am I not surprised. Here I was, _worried_ that you haven’t replied to my messages or answered to my phone calls in the last _two fucking months_ , and I come here to find you whoring yourself, as is usual.”

“Please, as if you could muster enough compassion for something more than the current state of your own nails to worry about anyone other than yourself, Livia,” Dorian scoffs, making her face flush as she holds back the explosion of rage Dorian would certainly expect were they anywhere else less public. Bull, however, manages to feel the palpable rage emanating from her, and tenses next to Dorian.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, _dearest_?” She grits between her teeth, and this time it’s Dorian’s turn to stiffen. He knows where she’s getting at.

He hesitates for one second, thinking of a witty response that will actually have her walk away, but a second is all it takes: Bull, damn him and his manners, beats him to the punch. He steps forward and offers his massive hand to Livia, who shakes it with an impish grin on her lips. “Ah, my apologies,” he says, all poise and grace, “I’m Bull, Dorian’s... friend.”

If Livia notices the hesitation before the word _friend_ , she doesn’t say so, but her smile gets sharper and her eyes turn hard and ice cold.

“Livia Herathron, Dorian’s _fiance_. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Deafening silence falls over them as Bull’s cogs work, making sense of what Livia has just disclosed.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bull whispers as he pulls his hand back, taking a small step away both form Livia and Dorian, and this simple gesture feels like a slap to Dorian’s face. Livia gives a dry, humourless chuckle.

“Of _course_ he hasn’t told you, the unfaithful scat. To him I’m just a name on a paper, aren’t I, Dorian?” And that, to Dorian, is the final drop. He gives up on any pretense to be fine and proper and barely holds back on spitting at her feet.

“As you always were, Livia, and as you always will be. If this is about you being envious that people with no matrimonial bonds to my person have my willing and freely given attention and _cock_ , then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you by promising that you’ll never earn either one from me, for as long as I live _._ I figured you knew this at this point, but apparently you needed a fresh reminder, and I see no issue in refreshing your damaged memory and stomping your puny ego from time to time. It is my utmost pleasure, in fact.”

Slowly the grin falls flat from her face, being replaced by an ugly shocked frown, and on cue the five minutes alarm bell goes off. Dorian’s escape route. “Now, if you’re quite finished embarrassing yourself while trying to harass me and my friend, please do excuse us. You’ve made us both late to our classes.”

And with that he walks away, shoulders thrown back and eyes staring straight ahead, not waiting for either of them. He hears Livia say something to Bull, sharp and nasty – _like herself_ , Dorian thinks, bitterly – followed by a hasty few words from Bull, who then hurries to catch up with Dorian, back straight and stiff as a rod and fists shaking violently with anger.

“What the _fuck_?” Bull whispers next to Dorian’s ear, sounding confused and perhaps even mildly offended, and it makes what feels like pure acid of hot shame run down his spine and build down on the pit of his stomach. He stops dead on his tracks when he turns a corner, knowing Livia isn’t behind them anymore, watching the hallway gradually become empty as students make their way to their own classrooms.

He thinks about the next hour and a half, where he’ll be required to sit in a cold, hard chair and pay attention to one of his most hated professors, an old and bitter man who firmly believes that just because he has a diploma and a modicum of knowledge on the subject he teaches he can blabber endlessly in class about how much greater he is than anyone else.

“How do you feel about skipping afternoon classes?” He asks, thinking that it would be good for his classmates to have a reprieve from his presence when he’s in this foul of a mood, and while Bull is usually dead set on taking college as seriously as possible, meaning never missing a single class or assignment, he nods without giving it a single thought.

“I know where we can go.”

The walk to Bull’s car is painfully silent, and the drive to wherever they're going is even more so; Dorian could cut the tension with a knife, had he had one. It’s a good thing he doesn’t, though, because he absolutely could not be trusted with any sharp objects at the moment.

Not fifteen minutes later Bull maneuvers his car onto a small parking lot next to a grassy patch, and as soon as Dorian walks out the door he sees a big lake not too far off, surrounded by trees with brown and yellow leaves and green bushes perfectly trimmed to take the exact shape of various animals.

It’s Montfort’s central park; Dorian’s passed through it countless times, usually when he’s on his way to class, but he’s never actually spent time in it. There’s tons of unnecessary swirly architecture, flowery foliage that covers every possible and acceptable surface, and the ducks that flock about are as colorful as the peacocks that strut through the park like they own the place. A rather large tree sits near where Bull parked the car, its leaves shaking softly with the breeze, and Bull walks straight to it, grunting when he kneels next to its roots.  Dorian joins him, the trunk wide enough that they can sit side by side.

“You probably want an explanation,” Dorian whispers, still not looking at Bull, and Bull shrugs.

“She says she’s your fiancé, but you two had nothing but contempt for each other. But at the same time you didn’t deny it. Makes no sense.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian sighs, looks down at his hands. Anywhere but at Bull. “It may make more sense if you know that I’ve been betrothed to Livia since I was three, but I’ve known that I was gay since I was thirteen.”

“Shit. Who even does that nowadays?”

“Most influential Tevinter families that want to remain influential. My family isn’t just rich, they’re one of the most powerful bloodlines in Tevinter. Livia’s family isn’t as impressive really, but my father has been friends with her parents ever since they were young. This was decided for us long before we were born.”

Silence falls again, and Dorian concentrates on the sound of Bull’s breathing. It’s soothing, but not even that manages to bring his anxiety to manageable levels like it usually does. Bull makes a small noise and rubs his face, seemingly confused.

“I just... I can’t see a proud and strong person like you agreeing to settle down with someone you don’t love, I guess. Doing something you don’t want and being _okay_ with it.”

Dorian gives a low chuckle. “I feel like I should be offended in some level that I’m this easy to read, but yes, you’re quite right as a matter of fact. I’m _not_ okay with it.

“I never made it a secret that I was gay to my parents; in fact, as soon as I realized it, I insisted they cancel the entire arrangement. To no avail, of course. They berated me, accused me of doing this just to rebel. So I thought to myself, ‘they haven’t seen me rebel _yet_ ’, and so I did just that. Made out with boys in cupboards in school, got into petty fights, started sneaking out to drink and whore myself out by the time I was only fifteen. At sixteen, having been expelled from all schools in Tevinter, including a high security boarding school that I managed to escape from after just three months in there, my father sent me to be homeschooled by a friend of the family, hoping he could maybe help me see the way. Alexius.”

Bull grunts. “I’m guessing that didn’t work either,” he says, but Dorian shrugs.

“It worked somewhat. I’ve always been a student beloved by my teachers despite my transgressions for a reason; I was brighter than most children my own age, and Alexius was a _marvelous_ teacher who reminded me why I always loved studying. He showered me with praise where praise was warranted, his wife gave me all the affection and love that I never got from my own parents, and their son became not just a dear friend, but a brother.

“After three years in their care, having finally managed to graduate with honors, my parents tried to remind me where I truly belong, to commit myself to my family duties. The Alexius couldn’t go against the wishes of my legal guardians, so although they didn’t agree on forcing me onto anything, there was nothing they _could_ do. So I ran. Eventually, a private detective hired by my parents found me, naked, lying in bed with a lover. Security trespassed the house, dragged me out and took me back home, where dearest father locked me in my own room for three months.”

Silence falls over them again. A duck lands on the lake, startling its friends and making them quack loudly. Dorian chuckles, feeling almost a disconnection between the small joy he feels seeing the ducks and the heavy grief inside him, from remembering his past. Bull doesn’t push him, doesn't press him, and that makes it easier for him to continue.

“Afterwards... well. I went with them to a trip, as they told me; I had no idea where we were going, but I was just glad to be out of my room for the first time in so long. They gave me a bottle of water to drink, and after a few sips I remember feeling sluggish with the lull of the car, and I fell asleep with my head against the window, watching the trees go by. And when I woke up I was strapped to a bed.” A shiver runs down his arms, runs through his spine. From the corner of his eye he sees Bull’s jaw drop.

“They took me to a conversion therapy clinic. I’ll never forget it. My father was sitting next to the bed, a cold look in his eyes telling me it was all ‘for my own good’, before he left. Two months they kept me there against my will, torturing me. But my parents underestimated me, as usual. At the first opportunity I ran, and this time I told myself it’d be for good.”

 

\---

 

“Holy crap,” Bull whispers against his hand. He feels lightheaded; he knows that, unfortunately, clandestine conversion clinics exist in conservative countries, and that they perform horrid things to the people there. But he had no idea Dorian, someone so close to him, had been forcefully admitted to one, seen firsthand the horrors that happen in those wretched places. Just thinking about it makes him sick to his stomach. “Where did you go? Did you go to Alexius’ house?”

“I thought about it, at first,” Dorian says, sounding tired. “But I knew that would be the very first place father would go looking, and I didn’t want to risk having the Alexius get in trouble because of me. No, I ran to places they would never find me, and I decided I wouldn’t stop running so they wouldn’t ever be able to track me down. But it wasn’t easy. Some days I’d be able to trade services like washing dishes or weeding a garden for a hot meal and a bed, but some days I’d have just an alley, sometimes a cave, and the clothes on my back to protect myself from the cold. _Fuck_ , the cold. Tevinter was always so _warm_. And that was only Nevarra and the Free Marches; I never imagined how much worse Ferelden truly was.”

Dorian hugs himself when he pauses, almost as if remembering the cold gives him the shivers. Bull shifts closer, his feet scraping on the grass, and almost as if the mere touch of their arms gives Dorian the comfort he needs, he continues the story, his voice wavering as if just saying the words is a struggle in itself.

“I had no belongings to sell, no money on me, and if the cold was bad before, in Ferelden it was downright _unbearable_. A cold so harsh it seeped into my bones and made my teeth clack so hard the vibrations hurt my jaw, giving me headaches so intense I would puke bile from the pain. After a while desperation seeped in, and I... I sold the only thing I truly had. My body. All in exchange for not having my toes fall off.”

At this point Bull cannot take it anymore; he wraps an arm around Dorian’s shoulder, giving him an awkward sideways hug, his chin resting on the top of his head and his breath making his black hair flutter. He doesn’t want Dorian to keep talking, even if he still hasn't completely explained things. If it was painful for him to just imagine how that must’ve been like, he cannot fathom how it was for Dorian to _live_ it. Against his shoulder Dorian hides his face against Bull’s clavicle, his body shaking. He takes several deep breaths as Bull rubs his back, soothingly, until he finally continues.

“I was away for two years. Two whole years I managed to run. I thought... I thought I’d find something. Maybe a ragtag family that would take me in, help me start anew. But it never happened. The further I went, the worse it got, the rougher the men were, _crueler_ , seeing how desperate and willing I was. I ended up staying in a village for a few weeks in a row, begging for scraps, when the same detective father hired a couple of years back found me. Offered to give me clean clothes and a warm bath that very same day, if only I agreed to go back and listen to what my father had to say. So I did.”

“That’s what you meant, when you said you should've joined the Inquisition,” Bull mumbles, shocked. Dorian nods.

“I saw the sign, asking for recruits in some of the villages I went through. Even crossed paths with some Inquisition soldiers. I could’ve offered my research knowledge, but... something held me back. I wasn’t thinking straight, I guess, and in the end I never did go through with it.”

Bull takes a sharp breath, and imagines what would’ve happened had Dorian joined the war. He could’ve stayed behind the scenes, working with the intelligence behind it all. Had a warm bed, regular meals, a group of people who wouldn’t allow him to go back to his family.

Would they have met, back then? Would they have fallen together, had the opportunity to even cross paths? Dorian, a researcher, and Bull, a Qunari-turned-Tal-Vashoth soldier? Who would they have been to each other then? Friends, or allies, but strangers?

He shakes his head. No use of reminiscing about what it could’ve been.

“So he asked you to go through with the marriage again. And you agreed this time.”

“Yes,” Dorian whispers, his voice small, weak. “He said that if I agreed, I wouldn’t have to marry right away. He told me he’d pay for me to study anywhere in the world, at the college of my choice, and that I’d only have to marry after graduating. He also promised an apartment near said college so I would have my privacy, so I could stay away from home, with as much or as little luxury as I wished for, so I could have time to come to terms with my future, my _destiny_. All he wanted from me was that I’d marry and have a child, even if through artificial insemination if that was what it took. At that point, anything was better than being homeless again, to go hungry and thirsty and cold and suffer all of the abuses I’d gone through just to survive. So I said yes. And here we are.”

Bull does the math in his head. _After graduating_. “Does that mean you’re...”

“Getting married sometime next year? Yes. Essentially.”

Bull still hasn’t let go of Dorian. His arm tightens a fraction, and Dorian once more leans his head against his shoulder. It’s painful beyond words; Bull cannot fathom how strong Dorian is, for having gone through all of that and still managing to become the kind, caring, gentle man he is. He buries his nose on Dorian’s hair and inhales sharply, trying to hold back his tears.

“So what now? What happens to us?”

Dorian sighs, a shaky and wet thing. Bull can tell he’s also fighting hard not to cry. “Livia knows I dislike her, but the feeling is rather mutual, so in that sense, it works. I’ve never made any promises to be faithful, nor would she ever ask me to. I’m sure she also has her own fair share of lovers. She just did a scene today because she was angry I’ve been ignoring her calls.”

“...and why are you ignoring her?”

At that, Dorian hesitates: Bull can feel him tensing under his arm. “Hey, hey,” Bull whispers, his first, immediate action to reassure and soothe Dorian. Koslun forbid if he puts him through even more distress than all of what he’s gone through just this afternoon. “You don’t gotta tell me if you don’t want to, it’s ok, really.”

“No, I–” Dorian starts, chokes, bends his head down low. Bull rubs Dorian’s back with his thumb, moving it in circular motions. It works, somewhat, and after a deep breath Dorian continues. “I have been ignoring her because... I don’t _want_ this. I never did, this... _fake_ , loveless marriage, for the sake of what? Titles? Political positions? I never wanted any of that. _My parents_ want all of that. And the closer my marriage gets... fuck, Bull, I’m _scared_.”

“You’re scared because it’s so close to sealing the deal.”

“No.” And at that Dorian lifts his head, eyes red and cheeks flushed, but expression resolute. He squares his shoulders and looks at Bull straight into his single eye. “I’m scared not of the marriage itself, but of how _final_ it feels. Because I know that after all is said and done, I’ll have to _leave you_. And at this point I can’t– _bear_ the thought of leaving you, and I’ve been trying to deny it, to, to _change_ it, but I _can’t_ , and I–”

Dorian never finishes his thought; Bull closes their short distance in the blink of an eyes and kisses him, silencing him in the process. Dorian makes no complaints or objections; he just throws his arms around Bull’s neck and reciprocates, kissing him like he’s never kissed Bull ever before.

It’s wild and desperate, but also sweet and sad. Bull feels wetness on his cheeks and salt on their tongues, but he cannot tell whose tears these are. His maimed hand runs over Dorian’s cheek and jaw and across the back of Dorian’s head, tangling his fingers in his dark hair, and the other goes to the small of Dorian’s back, under his shirt, to feel the softness of his skin, the peach fuzz on the dips of his hips, warm up the cold that always permeates that part of Dorian’s body when they venture outside. Dorian responds in kind by grabbing Bull’s jaw, the pad of his fingers and the tip of his nails digging in at the skin there, scratching his short beard, at the same time his thumb gently moves over his cheeks.

The kiss says more than mere words could. More than they could say out loud to each other.

When they pull back, a prickling on the back of Bull’s neck tells him they’re being watched quite intently – most likely by some shocked, pompous Orlesian walking their miniature dog – and while usually this would bother him madly, he manages to ignore it completely. He has better things to focus on, like the gorgeous guy in his arms.

“We should probably go back to class,” Bull says when they finally pull apart, their foreheads touching, lips tingling thanks to all the stubble that got in the way. Dorian giggles, breathless, and Bull’s heart skips a beat.

“Maybe,” he says, smiling and looking at Bull from under his lashes. “But before that, there’s something I need to do first. A promise that I made.”

 

\---

 

Felix jogs up to the cafeteria, quickening his pace when he spots Dorian sitting at one of the empty tables. He sighs with relief when he sees he doesn’t look distressed or hurt, but at the same time it confuses him to no end as to why they’re meeting here at this time of the day.

“Dorian, why on Thedas did I have to run out of class like there world’s ending? Why couldn’t we talk _after_ class, at home?” He asks, sitting next to Dorian and running his hand through his buzzed hair. “I’ve never seen you willingly skip class, even when you hate it.”

“Yes, well. This couldn’t wait. But worry not, it’s for a good cause,” he says, smiling, honest-to-Maker _smiling_ from ear to ear, and before Felix can ask anything a guy gets up from the next table over and walks towards them.

Felix widens his eyes; he would, hands down, be the scariest qunari Felix has ever seen, if it wasn’t for the easygoing grin on his lips. Grey skin, horns as wide as his shoulders, impressive muscles, probably around seven feet tall, a silver eyepatch covering a scar on the left side of his face. His shirt seems to be a muscle flex away from ripping out of his body. Felix’s jaw drops when he stops next to Dorian, and before he can ask anything, Dorian places a hand oh-so-gently over the man’s forearm.

“Felix,” he says, in that low, careful tone that means he has something important to say. “I’d like to introduce you to Bull Ashkaari.”

And just like that it dawns on him. The promise Dorian made months ago.

_If Bull and I ever become anything more than fuck buddies, I promise you’ll be the first person I’ll tell. I won’t even tell Bull if I haven’t told you._

Bull extends his hand forward, completely clueless, and says something that Felix barely hears over the beating of his heart that muffles his ears. Instead he gets to his feet over the cafeteria chair to get somewhat close to the man’s height and throws his arms over Bull’s neck, hugging him as tightly as he can. He makes a noise of surprise just as Felix starts to cry.

He _always_ knew Dorian could find love. He never doubted it.


	5. (now) the frozen city starts to glow

Bull wakes up slowly, eyes focusing on the paper lamp on his ceiling, the room still dark and quiet.

Next to him, Dorian sleeps, his cheek on his chest and mouth slightly open, dampening his skin. It’s endearing; it makes Bull’s chest hurt with how much he cares for this man, this beautiful, kind man that came so suddenly into his life and brightened his outlook for the future. It’s almost like as long as they are together, everything will be fine.

But yesterday, after meeting Dorian’s fiancé, he wonders what their future will hold, but more than ever he now knows he wants Dorian to be a part of it, even if just as a friend. He doesn’t mind being the lover of an unhappy engagement, per se, but he’d much rather that Dorian wasn’t in this situation altogether. He remembers Livia’s words the day before: _enjoy your boytoy while you can._ A bitter, mean comment from a woman who’s clearly just as unpleased with her fate as Dorian is. But he remembers even more vividly enjoying the sun’s warmth at the park, holding each other’s hands as they went around the lake, their faces red and swollen from crying and kissing but neither one of them caring about the strange looks they got from passerbies. A few precious minutes of calm after the storm that the hour before had been.

When he looks to the window, through the crack in between his curtains he sees that instead of the nice and sunny day Dorian was expecting and looking forward to, rain clatters against the ceiling, the sky gray and the day gloomy. A weird weather for the end of May, but somehow appropriate.

He pulls up the covers and hugs Dorian tighter. He won't complain; after all that’s happened they very much deserve a day in bed. And as long as he gets to hold Dorian through it he’s rather okay with it.

 

\---

 

It’s the end of June, at last. The cold isn’t so cold anymore, the weather giving way to the first signs of summer, which means that at the mere hint of a sunny day Orlesian madames don their frilly parasols on the streets, the girls put on their sandals, and the boys wear their khaki shorts. It’s all very... _Orlesian_.

At this exact day it’s been three whole months since Bull and Dorian first met. Another trimester is done with, another round of tests is behind them, another party is underway to celebrate, but this time the party is at Bull’s house, and blaring music is strictly prohibited. The Chargers are invited, along with a few other people Dorian doesn’t recognize, and Felix comes along with Dorian. The dinner table is pushed against the wall and filled with goodies that Bull spent the day making with the Chargers, and it ranges from fried savory dough filled with all sorts of cheeses all the way to brownies and tiny cake bites.

Ever since Dorian introduced Bull and Felix a month prior, Felix’s been acting like a mother hen. He will pop up at their campus to join them for lunch every now and then, no matter that the Mathematics building is fifteen minutes by foot; Dorian thinks it’s annoying, but Bull finds it cute. Felix has met the Chargers once before, when Bull invited everyone to a bar near the campus – “We gotta introduce the families, kadan!” “Please don’t encourage him, amatus.” – and Felix hit it surprisingly well with everyone. Krem gave the idea of hosting a _private frat party_ , as a way to recreate the successful disaster that was the first one – minus the disastrous parts – and this is how they now find themselves here, mingling and drinking and eating food so good Felix might have an orgasm sooner rather than later.

“I can’t believe you never told me your amatus was a dream in the kitchen too, Dorian,” Felix says through a mouthful of cheesy onion rings. They’ve pretty much set camp next to the food table per Felix’s request, which would normally make Dorian embarrassed, but there’s so much food Dorian fears that if they don’t eat it all tonight Bull will have to eat cold fried snacks for at least a whole week after this, so he hasn't complained much.

“I will be honest, Felix, I am just as shocked as you are.”

He’s eating a small square of vanilla shortcake covered in strawberry icing, and it’s probably the best sweet he’s had ever since he left Tevinter. He’ll have to ask Bull to make one of those for his birthday, maybe.

The thought is so natural and so sudden it scares him. _His birthday_. It’s coming up in August, and Dorian quickly smothers the thought away. If he has to be honest with himself, it’s probably going to be his only birthday spent with Bull, and he’d rather _not_ be honest with himself, not right now and maybe not ever again.

His phone buzzes. He looks at the name and frowns. The preview of the message is briefly visible before he swipes it away.

_I cannot believe you’re still ignoring my messa--_

“She still bothering you?” Felix asks, nibbling on a mozzarella stick, and Dorian hums. He’s not surprised nor upset that Felix was looking over his shoulder.

“Yes. Apparently her _amicable_ visit last month was supposed to have snapped me out of my childish ways, as she put it recently. Sadly, she was sorely mistaken to think that I would feel ashamed of acting childish towards her of all people.” He locks his phone and finishes eating his shortcake, turning to Felix. “Can you believe I had to _block_ her phone number? Just last week she had the gall to call me no less than _twenty three times_ while I was taking a test. What did she think was going to happen, honestly?”

Felix shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder what goes through her head.”

Dorian takes a beer from the table, pops the cap open with his hand and tips the neck at Felix. “If we’re lucky then we shall never know, my friend.”

Felix lifts a brow as Dorian takes a swig of the beer. “I thought you hated Ferelden beer.”

Dorian puts a finger over his lips, makes a shushing sound. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Felix stops, squints at Dorian, then glances at the dessert side of the table. “Pass me one of those brownies way over there and I promise I won’t.”

Dorian smiles and gets up from his chair with a small bow, laughing. “You have a deal.”

The night goes on nicely. Bull joins their conversation, explaining how he made the food, Dalish and Skinner whip out a twister mat, a game which Bull is forbidden to play both because of his bad knee and because he apparently almost poked one of Krem’s eyes out with his horn the last time he did, and nearing the end of the evening Grim sings along to an opera that Bull put on the playlist on purpose. The entire room is aghast by the time he finishes.

Felix is taken home by Stitches, who ended up being everyone’s designated driver, and Dorian stays behind to both help Bull organize the after-party mess, store the leftovers, and of course, rumple the bedsheets. He’s been doing so more often than not lately; his bed feels too cold, big and empty whenever he sleeps at his apartment now.

After they’re finished with the chores, Dorian lies down next to Bull and cuddles close to his side, his body warmth seeping through the fabric of his pajamas, and since his hands and feet are still exposed Bull doesn’t mind that he tucks his ice cold fingers and toes onto whatever body part he can reach.

It’s at these moments, when Dorian’s tucking a foot against the back of Bull’s knees and his hands under his armpits and sighing happily because they’re _so warm_ , and he knows it can’t be the most comfortable feeling to have almost literal ice cubes shoved onto warm body parts, but Bull doesn’t say anything, just pulls him closer, hugs him tighter... it’s then that he knows he’s in this too deep. Just three months in and he knows he’s in it way too deep.

 

\---

 

Summer arrives with fanfare not a week later. Students all around campus are either jumping with joy or running faster than their legs can take them, either to a car that will drive them far, far away from campus or to the embrace of their own beds.

They’re in the car to Bull’s house when he insists on taking Dorian to a small road trip around the coast of Orlais.

“To celebrate our birthdays,” he says – for a second Dorian wonders if he should tell him he’s got the date completely wrong, but Bull beats him to the punch.

“Felix told me your birthday’s in August,” – _traitor_ , Dorian thinks, – “and mine’s a week from now. I was thinking I could take you out to get something nice to eat on the actual day of your birthday, but it would be cool if we did something else to celebrate, you know? Something _bigger_. Just you and I, two weeks in the countryside, together.”

After Bull finishes talking he shrugs, like he doesn’t care either way, but Dorian knows better. The idea of spending two whole weeks with Bull is daunting, and he hesitates, but Felix insists that he goes.

“You know what they say about one of a kind opportunities!”

“What do they say, Felix?” Dorian asks, sighing heavily.

“You have to _grab the bull by the horns!_ ”

And thus a pillow goes flying towards Felix’s head.

In the end, to no one’s surprise but his own, Dorian agrees. They take Bull’s car and start the trip in Val Royeaux, where they make stop for three days so they can celebrate Bull’s actual birthday and so Dorian can go on a shopping spree. They then make their way down to Val Foret before arriving in Velun, where they stay in a lodge by the shores of Lake Celestine, one of the most beautiful sights Dorian’s ever seen. They continue through Val Firmin, Montsimmard, Verchiel, Lydes, enjoying the local commerce and landscapes, finally finishing their trip in Halamshiral, where they stop to see the Winter Palace in all its shimmering glory. They take the ferry back to the main road that leads to Montfort, and returning feels both bittersweet and also incredibly satisfying.

The whole trip takes longer than Bull promised it would by a whole week, but only because Dorian ended up insisting they prolong it, paying for extra nights in the hotels they stayed at. The idea of being on the road for so long wasn’t all that appealing at first, but seeing the countryside in bloom, the trees with its fresh green foliage, the Waking Sea under blue skies... it was all so much more than Dorian ever expected it to ever be. And having Bull by his side, sharing the experience, made the whole trip truly unforgettable.

Most of the pictures are taken with both their phones – Dorian sends the ones he deems acceptable to Felix every day before he goes to sleep – but still he insists on taking his digital camera with him as well. He takes _breathtaking_ shots with it, plus a few of them together that don't turn out half bad. Bull almost forgets about the camera, but Dorian surprises him a week after they’ve been back with a small photo album, its pages filled with the photos he took on his digital camera, all printed on glossy paper. There’s a total of twenty photos, and eight of them are of Bull and Dorian together, one for each destination they went to.

Bull’s favorite is the selfie they took with their backs to Lake Celestine; the setting sun is hitting the water just right, the sky is that perfect shade of orange, blue and purples, and Dorian’s leaning his head against Bull’s shoulder. Dorian’s, however, is the last one they took, standing in front of the Winter Palace under the midday sun. Halamshiral is still cold at this time of the year, given its location, so Dorian’s wearing an overcoat and scarf, and Bull looks marvelous in a black leather jacket, the gold accents of the palace behind them shining beautifully in the sun. The guard that took their photo managed to get a perfect frame of them up on the stairs that lead to the main doors, making them look like royalty, their intertwined arms in the center of the frame.

They’re both beautiful pictures. Bull buys a couple of picture frames the next day, giving one to Dorian and keeping the second one to himself, so they can put their favorite photos in them; Dorian puts his frame atop of his dresser – a place of honor, next to his perfumes and jewelry boxes and the only other picture he has, of the Alexius family and him on a trip they made to Nevarra. Bull places his on the living room shelf, along with his favorite knick knacks and close to some other photos he’s framed over the years: him and his Charges, his Tama, his team in Seheron.

It’s sickly domestic, for them to own these tokens, and honestly, Dorian secretly loves it.

July ends quickly after that, making way to August, when classes start anew. They get back fairly easy into the rhythm of things – classes, dates, sex – with the addition of being... whatever they are. This unspoken, unnamed thing that neither one wants to say it out loud, but won’t deny either. They hold hands unashamedly, cuddle more than they fuck, and Bull takes Dorian to dinner at a four star restaurant for his birthday, just as promised.

It all feels so easy and natural it both soothes and scares Dorian.

The more time passes, the more Dorian’s future seem to weigh on him, like a living thing pushing him down by his shoulders. When September’s tests are done with, his teachers praise him endlessly, telling him that if he wished to do so he wouldn’t even have to attend most of the classes of his last trimester because he’d still manage to graduate with honors.

His last trimester.

 _Graduation_.

He looks up at Bull as he’s telling his Chargers a wild story that happened the week before in one of his classes - a kid purposely snorted pollen, resulting in a _sneeze fest_ that distracted the teacher for long enough so one of his best friends could cheat on the test - and they laugh and smile and banter like the longtime friends they are. Dorian watches in silence, but his chest _hurts._ It hurts more than he can describe, like a claw has reached beyond his ribs and is squeezing the muscle until it gives, because he knows he won’t ever be allowed to have this. Not for much longer anyway.

His phone vibrates. He looks down, some of the pressure alleviating, hoping it’s Felix to distract him, but once again it’s just Livia, her texts becoming more and more insistent ever since he blocked her from making calls to his number.

He grunts and finally blocks the messages as well. He cannot deal with everything that’s been going on, especially so if he adds the _viper_ to the mix. She wants him to participate in choosing the details for the wedding, _their_ wedding, and has been bugging him for the past few weeks to call her, and as much as he wants to call just to say that as far as he’s concerned the food should be literal ashes, the flowers would do well to be plucked weed, and the band could be playing funeral tunes, and he wouldn’t care either way. But he refuses to give her the satisfaction of answering her, of giving in to her requests and whims. She’ll get the hint and pick everything out herself, he’s sure of it.

“You okay there, big guy?” Bull asks, leaning down to look him in the eye, and Dorian inhales sharply.

Why did this have to be so _hard_.

“No, not really.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

Dorian nods, and Bull gets up from his seat before Dorian can say anything else. He tells everyone he and Dorian are tired and need their beauty sleep, some crass jokes are thrown around casually as everyone laughs, but ultimately they leave without much fuss. Dorian breathes out as soon as he gets inside Bull’s car, and Bull places a heavy hand on his shoulders.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Want? No. But I should,” Dorian says, pressing his lips together until they ache. “But not tonight, amatus.” Bull makes a face, and Dorian knows he’s used this excuse before, and not just once. “Tomorrow. I’ll prepare myself, and tomorrow, I promise, we’ll talk.”

Bull nods and takes them back to his house, a house that Dorian sometimes refers to in his head as _theirs_ , but knows he shouldn’t. They undress in silence and crawl under the covers wordlessly, as they’ve done so many times before, like it’s already a second nature to them. A kiss here, a hand there, and soon they’re asleep in each other’s arms.

Dorian dreams of cold beaches and great golden palaces, and of waking up next to Bull for the rest of his life.

 

\---

 

It’s the first week of October, the first week of the last few classes of Dorian’s curriculum. Bull tightens his hold on Dorian’s hand, and remembers when he used to pull away whenever someone walked past them, shame and fear ingrained in him after growing up in Tevinter. Now Dorian just squeezes back, looks up at him and grins, chatting idly about whatever comes to mind.

This time it’s Bull who’s distracted, and it’s Dorian who freezes.

Up ahead, like a tasteless recreation of their first time meeting, stands Livia, hands crossed across her chest and head thrown slightly back to show contempt. She looks calm, but Bull knows it’s a façade.

“Livia,” Dorian says, and it’s almost a déja-vu, his voice dripping with disdain and his face closing off to show no emotions. “To what do I own the _dis_ pleasure?”

“I figured, since you blocked me on all available methods of contacts, I should come here to give your friends the invitation to _your own goddamn wedding_.” She grits through her teeth, shoving both her arms forward, and to his shock Bull gets one envelope for himself. The name on the invitation only says “Qunari”, and in any other situation he’d laugh at the ridiculousness of it. He looks to the side and sees that the envelope Dorian’s opening with more force than necessary has Felix’s name on it.

“ _January eighteenth_?! What is the meaning of this?” Dorian exclaims, his face twisting with anger and confusion. “That wasn’t what we agreed on! The agreement was for the marriage to happen sometime in March, not literally the week after my graduation!”

“Ah, yes, that. Well, since I’m pregnant, we figured that fasting forwarding the whole ceremony would only make sense, you know? Wouldn’t want to have a bump too obvious on my wedding day.”

Dorian freezes. Bull, however, just looks confused. _Pregnant_? With whose child?

“And... your parents and in-laws agreed to this... with no complaints.” Bull says when Dorian doesn’t seem to question it. Livia laughs once, a sharp and loud sound.

“Well, _yes_. I mean, it _is_ Dorian’s child after all.”

The world seems to stop. Bull’s feels shock running cold down his nape and shoulders, eye widening, as he tries to make sense of what Livia’s just said, but next to him Dorian looks worse, like he knows _exactly_ what she means. He looks horrified, eyes wide open in horror and his mouth agape. Bull’s never seen him like this.

“You _didn’t_.”

“But I did,” Livia says, smiling. “Honestly, after you met _him_ ,” and she says this indicating Bull with a sharp flick of her head. Bull glares at her and it’s highly satisfying how she flinches, just slightly. “After you met him you started ignoring me, so naturally, we were all worried that you’d forgotten the promise you made. So I decided to do something to help remind you where you belong. Remind you of the promises you made to me and your family, Dorian.”

“You’re _lying_ ,” Dorian growls, literally _growls_ , and Bull almost steps away from him as he gets so close to Livia’s face their noses are nearly touching. “You’re a liar! You _wouldn’t! You--_ ”

“Wouldn’t I, Dorian?” She asks, voice low and calm as a winter storm, and Dorian chokes on his words before turning around and running the other way, running so fast Bull almost doesn’t manage to follow him, turning his back on Livia without a second thought to go after Dorian.

He swears he hears her laughing at them.

He catches up with Dorian in the middle of the college’s tennis field, both of them panting, Bull’s throat hoarse with screaming Dorian’s name and begging him to _please, just **wait**_ , but it’s not Bull who stops him; Dorian turns around towards the bleachers, ducking under the wooden structure and puking over the floor, one hand holding a wooden beam and his body hunched over and trembling violently.

Bull step up and stands next to him, puts a hand over his forehead to hold his hair back, but Dorian barely seems to notice. He coughs and spits bile, tears flowing unbidden down his cheeks. Bull rubs his back and holds his shoulder, and Dorian manages to choke out a few broken words after he manages to get his breathing marginally under control.

“I-I put my semen in a bank in Tevinter, be-before I came to college,” Dorian whispers, voice shaking terribly. He’s breathless, and the words seem to be punched out of him. “It was part of my p-p-promise to my dad, t-that when I got married, Livia would be able to, to--”

Dorian closes his eyes tightly, teeth bared, and Bull’s blood runs cold.

“Dorian. She _couldn’t_. Not without you knowing, and the employees at the bank wouldn’t do that,” Bull tries to reassure him, but Dorian just shakes his head, swallowing and gasping.

“ _Couldn’t_ she? _Wouldn’t they?_ ” He screams, his voice hoarse, and it’s so heartbreaking Bull feels powerless, not knowing how to make it better. “You don’t know my parents, Bull. They have their ways, they _always_ did. They took everything from me, Bull, _everything_. My life was never mine, _never_. Not even in _this_ I get a say in.”

Bull still doesn’t know what to say, so he wordlessly pulls Dorian away from the mess on the floor, away from the bleachers and onto the tennis field, hand on his back still rubbing his spine soothingly. They sit down onto the damp grass, and uncharacteristically Dorian doesn’t complain, going down with Bull, folding his legs and resting his head against Bull’s shoulder as Bull wraps an arm around him, the other holding on to Dorian’s hand on his lap. It’s several minutes later when Dorian manages to breathe somewhat normally, only the occasional hiccup shaking his body, face covered in tears and snot. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so damn sad.

“Shouldn’t you be in class, you big oaf?” Dorian whispers, eyes droopy as he stares at Bull.

“Class? What class? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Bull smiles, something small and gentle, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to offer it to Dorian. He chuckles and accepts it, wiping his face and blowing his nose.

“Thank you,” Dorian says under his breath, pocketing the handkerchief. “I’ll wash it before returning it.” Bull shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he says, tracing his thumb over Dorian’s cheekbone. Dorian closes his eyes, humming, a small smile on his lips.

“I’d like for you to take me home, if that’s quite alright.”

“Anything you want, Dorian.”

 

\---

 

Bull leaves Dorian home, just as he asked. Felix isn’t in, and for that Dorian’s grateful. He brushes his teeth and drinks water, then falls onto his bed and sleeps almost immediately, an unrestful rest without any dreams. He wakes hours later when Felix arrives with takeout, and upon seeing Dorian’s state – face wrinkled with sleep, eyes puffy, hair in disarray, pants stained green – he tells him what Livia’s done. Felix’s face goes white as a sheet.

“She _didn’t_.”

Dorian shrugs, poking his noodles with his fork. “She says she did, and at this point, I don’t doubt just how far my parents would go to keep me wrapped around their finger. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was my mother’s idea, even.”

Felix bangs a fist on the table, face twisted with anger. “They can’t do this! This is not--”

“ _What I signed up for_ , Felix? Because, actually, _yeah_ , that is _exactly_ what I signed up for, if you don’t remember.”

Felix falls silent at that, but his face is hard as stone. Dorian’s tears have dried, but it doesn’t stop hurting, his eyes stinging.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. It never did.

Felix shakes his head and takes a stab at his food.

“You _still_ know how I feel about it,” he whispers bitterly. “And what about Bull, huh? What about him?”

“Bull was supposed to be a one-night stand like every other one I had before him.”

“Yeah, but he’s _not_ , and honestly I don’t think he _ever_ was. Are you just going to give up on him like that?”

Dorian shakes his head, drops his fork, putting his elbows onto the table and resting his head on his palms. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, chuckling lowly. Sadly.

“But Felix, my dear, friend. How can I give up something I never even had in the first place?”

 

\---

 

Dorian and Bull don’t see each other for a week. They text each other constantly, and Dorian doesn’t attend classes, still too shaken up, afraid he might run into Livia again. Not knowing how he might react if he does.

Bull respects that he needs space, doesn’t press it, and Dorian is grateful for it. He works on his thesis while he’s holed up in his apartment, to have something to distract his troubled mind, and finishes it by midday friday. It’s like a weight has been removed from his shoulders, no matter how minuscule, but it’s something he’s managed to accomplish in an otherwise useless week, and for that he’s grateful. Before he can think twice about it he picks his phone and calls Bull.

“Can I come over to your place tonight?” He asks as soon as he hears Bull’s picked up.

“You know you can come over any time you want, Dorian,” Bull says, and Dorian can almost hear the relief on his voice.

“Still. The polite thing to do is ask first, is it not?”

Bull chuckles. “Let’s make it a date then, shall we? Seven, at my house?”

“I’ll be there.”

 

\---

 

Bull’s never been happier to hear Dorian’s voice before.

As soon as he hangs up the phone Bull dials a familiar number, then takes the exit hallway instead of the one that would take him to his last class. He’s skipping it for a good reason.

“Krem,” he says as soon as the person on the other side picks up, smiling from ear to ear, half nervous, half giddy. “Green light! Can I get my shipment by tonight, six-thirty tops?”

“Tonight it is, chief. Don’t fuck it up.”

 

\---

 

At five past seven Dorian gets out of his car, suspicious. Bull’s door is closed and the curtains are drawn, the light inside dim, and on the doormat in front of Bull’s front door lies a bouquet, made up of blood red roses and delicate blue orchids.

Dorian picks it up, smiling fondly. It’s a lovely gesture, he must admit. He decides against ringing the doorbell and just tests the doorknob, not in the least surprised when it gives and he manages to push the front door open.

Before Dorian can take another step in he stops dead on his tracks and _gapes_.

Flowers are everywhere; over the kitchen counter, tucked on the corners of the shelves, behind the TV, covering the dinner table, on top of the couch, spread over the floor. Everywhere he looks he sees red roses and blue orchids of all shapes and sizes, candles placed strategically to illuminate the room in a warm orange glow on what’s probably a huge fire hazard, and in the middle of it all, like a beacon of hope, stands Bull, holding a single blue orchid.

Dorian nearly faints, his heart beating painfully fast against his ribcage. He closes the door behind him, his hand clinging extra hard to the stems of his bouquet so he won’t drop it and ruin the perfect flowers that shape it.

“You said that day a week ago, that you were never allowed to get a say in your own life. That your life was never yours,” Bull starts, then gets down on one knee, grunting as he does so. Dorian snaps out of his shock and hurries forward almost on instinct, holding on tightly to his forearms to help him down, worried about Bull’s bad knee. He kneels down too, body shaking and fingers tightening over Bull’s arms, and wishes he didn’t ever have to let go. “This might not be the proposition you might think it is, at least not _yet_ ,” Bull continues, “but it is a proposal that I want to make to you.”

Bull opens the hand that’s holding the orchid, and there, wrapped around the orchid’s stem, is a single key, silver and shiny. Dorian almost loses his breath.

“What...”

“This is the key to a small brick house I have in Antiva, near Starkhaven. I bought it as a plan B after I left the army, and it's been there since. It has a big, wide terrain for us to do whatever we want with it, maybe build a small farm, maybe plant some trees. Grow some orchids, a few daisies. Open a shop.”

“Bull, _please_. What are you proposing, exactly?” Dorian asks, his voice shaking along with his hands, his legs, his knees. He feels he might faint, but he holds on to consciousness by staring into Bull’s single eye intently. By clinging to his arms and his words.

“Run away with me. Fuck the marriage. Fuck Livia, your parents, Tevinter, the supposed baby, _everything_. Nothing’s decided until you sign that paper, and by Koslun’s balls, Dorian, I will fight with tooth and nail to have you only ever sign it when you’re damn ready to do so, not when someone _pressures_ you into it. Finish college, graduate. We’ll make a party out of it, as it should be. Then we’ll jacktail out of here in the dead of the night without telling anyone, we’ll be ways away before your family notices we’re even gone. I know people who can hide our tracks, protect our identities. They’ll never find us again, Dorian, not if you don’t want to be found. It won’t be like before. It won’t _ever_ be like that again, not if I have a say in it.”

Dorian is speechless. For once in his life he doesn’t know what to say. He looks around at the house, at the sea of flowers, the flickering candles, the hand not holding the bouquet lifting up to cover his open mouth. Bull takes that hand with both of his, kissing its knuckles before enveloping it completely. Dorian sees Bull’s hands are also shaking as badly as his are, and it makes his heart beat that much faster.

“I _love_ you, Dorian Pavus, major in theoretical and practical molecule manipulation, senior year,” he says, smiling widely at his joke, startling a laugh out of Dorian.

And there, the three little words they’ve never dared to share, to say out loud, now out in the open. More than just gestures or actions, the words is a confession that feels bigger and more intimate than anything they’ve shared so far, true and raw and beautifully pure and sincere. Dorian’s tears fall freely as he smiles, laughter still bubbling in his chest, the orchids scattered around the room filling his peripheral vision.

“I love you, and _fuck_ , it feels so good to say it. I love you so much it sometimes feels like all of these feelings barely fit inside myself, like they’re a kiss on your lips away from bursting out from my chest. You’re the light of my life, the highlight of my days, the one person I would do crazy things for, and never ever regret them. Crazy things like buying hundreds of roses and orchids, just to make a moment memorable, and leaving without looking back, just so you can be happy, and I know I’ll always be happy being with you, no matter where we are. Run away with me, kadan, and I’ll try my best everyday to give you the life you’ve always dreamed of.”

It already _is_ all Dorian’s ever dreamed of and much, much more. And he loves this stupid man for wanting to give it all to him, so selflessly, willing to give up the life he’s built in Orlais to start anew all over again in another country far, far away, and all just for him.

For _them_.

“ _Yes_ ,” he chokes out, cheeks aching from smiling, and Bull laughs, relief and joy crystal clear on his face, a sound so sweet and pure it’s like Dorian’s _floating_. Suddenly they’re both kissing, Dorian throwing his arms around Bull’s neck and Bull getting up off the floor in one fell swoop, lifting Dorian and spinning him around in place. From somewhere behind them there are cheers, and when Dorian opens his eyes he sees the Chargers and Felix from over Bull’s shoulder, all holding handfuls of balloons and popping confetti bombs, _celebrating_ , crying and screaming happily. Dorian laughs again, breathless, and kisses Bull again.

“I love you too, amatus,” he whispers against Bull’s lips, and he knows right there and then that everything is going to be okay.

No matter what the future brings, as long as Bull is by his side, he can make it through. He’s sure of it.


	6. Epilogue

In a small town near one of the branches of the Minanter River in the Green Dales, a man walks out the front door of a two-floors brick and stones house, holding a wicker basket full of fruits and wearing long and flowy pants. He takes it next door to a small shop that’s right at the edge of the property, where he restocks the boxes on the shelves of the shop. The trees and bushes in his backyard make so much fruit if he doesn’t sell it it all goes bad in no time, especially at this time of the year.

Minutes later, when he’s nearly done, a qunari knocks on the door, and the man turns, smiling broadly.

“Bull,” he says fondly, setting the now empty basket to the side. He walks to meet the qunari as he enters the shop, places both hands over his massive chest, and kisses him on the lips, gently. “Welcome home. How was your day?”

“Hey Dorian. Pretty good,” Bull replies, sitting down on the oversized chair behind the counter and sighing. “You know, I never told you this, but I’m glad you convinced me to go back to school. It was a good idea.”

“I only have brilliant ideas, amatus,” Dorian says, haughtily, making Bull laugh, then he sits over his thighs and throws his arms around his shoulders.

“True,” he agrees, and they kiss again.

The house, originally, was Bull’s, but now they call it _theirs_ and it feels only natural to do so. They’ve settled nicely; the place they live in is well-kept, some of its walls covered in beautiful green branches the locals call _uña de gato_ , and the terrain around it was once bare, covered in tall green grass that needed to be trimmed, but now it’s home to a wide variety of local trees, flowers and herbs, the property surrounded by picket fences and wooden trellis for various kinds of plants to wrap around. They were the result of plenty of manual work done by the newly-settled couple – work of the kind Dorian had never done before, but one that he dove in with gusto.

Per Dorian’s insistence, Bull has continued his studies in Ansburg, which is just an hour away by car through the high speed lanes - Dorian felt immense guilt over the fact that Bull dropped his studies in Orlais, so when he discovered Ansburg’s local academy had the same course, Dorian refused to take no for an answer. Soon after they opened a farmhouse shop on their terrain, where they now sell plants and produce of all kinds. Most of the seedlings they have on the shop are from their own garden, but others are sometimes brought in from all around Thedas by several suppliers, along with a wide variety of vases and all kinds of gardening tools that they purchase both to sell and to keep for themselves. Rather quickly the place becomes a reference amongst the locals, where they can buy and learn how to care for both exotic and local fauna, and it’s no surprise; Bull runs the place with passion, and Dorian, little by little, learns the ropes so he can handle the business while Bull’s away studying, and soon they both earn the trust and friendship of the regulars and the locals that come to trade with them.

Sometimes he wonders what his father would say if he could see him now, with a diploma in molecule manipulation by one of the most distinguished faculties in Orlais, working amongst leaves and piles of fertilized dirt instead of labs and renowned scholars. He’d probably think it an unworthy job, that he’s wasting away all of his potential, but to Dorian it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to him.

Lost in these grim and very much unwelcome thoughts, the phone in Dorian’s pocket rings, as if the person calling knows Dorian needs the much welcome distraction. He doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Hello, Felix.”

“One day it’s going to be Mae calling,” the voice on the other line says, clearly amused, “and she’ll never let you live it down.”

“Felix dearest, the day that Mae calls before texting me is the day when the seas rise and engulf half of Thedas. By that point I’ll either be dead, or she’ll be worried enough about my safety that she will not mind my slip of the tongue.”

Felix laughs, and just that is enough to lift Dorian’s spirits.

Felix calls frequently, and Dorian’s secretly glad for it – and by _secretly_ he means it’s not a secret at all, given that he walks around the house with a goofy smile on his face when Felix calls, not a care in the world for who catches him being sappy, or the fact that sometimes he laughs so loudly Bull hears it over the running blender from the kitchen downstairs. They graduated together, as planned from the beginning, and the picture of them both in their graduation gown and cap, smiling brightly to the camera, is proudly displayed in one of the various shelves in Dorian and Bull’s living room.

As soon as the ceremony was over and the obligatory pictures were taken, Dorian slipped away with Bull, the car already loaded with all of their luggage and ready to take off – also as planned, but according to much more recent plans. Felix meets with Halward after vacating the apartment they shared in Orlais to personally hand him the keys, and Felix takes great joy in blatantly lying about Dorian’s whereabouts. _I bet the express ticket to Anderfels was ridiculously expensive_ , he laughs as he tells the story to Dorian, and though Dorian’s worried for his safety, he admits he’s also deeply touched by the gesture. Felix soon moves into a house in the heart of Orlais – given to him by Gereon as a much deserved graduation gift – where he’s now working as a teacher’s assistant in Val Royeaux’s public university. He tells stories about his days with great joy, and although they miss each other dearly, Dorian knows that in time they’ll manage to see each other again.

The Chargers don’t call as much, but every now and then they’ll pop up in group of two or three for surprise visits. Bull explains that they’re the ones who are in touch with the people trying to identify all of the the investigators hired by house Pavus, because to no one’s surprise, Halward has indeed sent a horde of professionals to locate Dorian and drag him back into Tevinter. However, Krem’s fiancé, Lace, is one of the best lawyers Dorian’s ever encountered, and after the investigators were located she’s met up with each and every one of them to present the restraining order that she’s issued against Dorian’s family and anyone working to or for them. It clearly states that, under Antivan law, if they break the restraining order after they’ve been made aware of it, they’ll risk being lynched and maybe even _maimed_ by the people that issued the order, should they feel threatened by their presence – all as an act of self-defense, of course – before they’re brought in to justice and given at least five years in jail with no chance of parole. Everything is completely legal under Antivan legislation, and as long as Dorian and Bull live and own not only property but also a prospering business in Antivan soil, they have the same rights as any born and raised Antivan.

Lace and Krem come over to give them this piece of news, and it’s probably one of the best, days in Dorian’s life.

“I also contacted a friend of mine that works and lives in Minrathous. He paid a visit to the Pavus estate and personally handed your mother and father the restraining order,” Lace explains, giving Bull and Dorian a copy of the document for them to hold on to. “The order doesn’t say exactly _where_ in Antiva you are for your own protection, which means that your family is strictly forbidden of putting a single foot in the border, at least not before the restraining order is revoked. Antiva is very strict about their citizens’ safety, what with their history of being the birthplace of various world-renowned assassins that they’re trying to rectify. So just remember: if anyone approaches you and declares they work for your family, you’re well within your rights to give them the whoop-ass of their life.” She smiles impishly at that, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t hold back, ok?”

Dorian hugs them both so tightly Krem complains about potentially broken ribs.

All in all, life is good. The town is small, but has enough commerce and is fairly close by car to some of the biggest cities in Antiva and the Free Marches. Dorian’s days are made of blissful domesticity, and although Dorian doesn’t have any of the glamour and wealth he grew up with, he wouldn’t trade his current life for anything in the world.

His only regret, however, the only thing that he wishes he didn’t have to leave behind, the one thing that keeps him up at night... is the knowledge of his child, being raised without him, somewhere he’ll most likely never see them grow up. He thinks about it everyday, wonders if Livia managed to have the baby safely, if they’re doing well, how healthy they are. If they look like him. If they’ll ever resent not having his father in their life.

On the worse days, Bull kindly reminds Dorian that it’s not _his_ baby, it’s Livia’s, because he had no choice and no say in it. Dorian also argues with himself that it’s better to have no father at all than to have a father like Halward, but exactly because of that he knows he wouldn’t be _anything_ like his own father. He’d be better, _do_ better for his child every single day, teach them acceptance, shower them with love. He knows that, had he stayed for the baby, his life would be endless misery, except maybe for the moments when he saw his child smile, hold his hand, look up to him with pride and trust. But in the end he decided not to be a part of their life, forfeited the responsibility on a selfish whim to be happy.

Bull argues that he should also think about himself, and that it’s not his obligation to take care of a child conceived in a massive violation of Dorian’s trust, because it doesn't matter that he’d agreed to save his sperm six years prior to put it to eventual use, it still didn’t give anyone the right to decide _when_ without talking to him beforehand. They didn't let him be a part of this life-changing decision so they could further control his life by guilting him into not changing his mind about the marriage. It’s sickening to think about how far they were all willing to go to manipulate Dorian. Bull calls it abuse, plain and simple, and that kind of self-assured abuse wouldn't just magically stop after the marriage; they’d continue to treat him as less than a person for as long as they felt it was their right, and Dorian cannot blame or beat himself up for finally escaping this hostile environment once and for all.

In some aspects, Dorian knows Bull’s absolutely right, but it doesn’t stop the guilt and the worry from crushing him to a point of near suffocation every single day.

Months pass, and the seasons slowly change. It’s a nice summer day; a cool breeze blows from the woods, and Dorian’s watching over the farmshop by himself while Bull’s out studying, as usual. He’s just finished arranging the new shipment of elfroot he just received when he spots a client walking into the shop.

“Welcome, sir,” Dorian says. The man looks Orlesian, with freckles dusted over his face and curly red hair tied back in a ponytail, but he seems oddly nervous. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Maybe,” he says, looking up and down at Dorian. There’s a sling that crosses his chest, and in it a tiny baby’s cradled, mumbling and moving about. “Are you Dorian Pavus?”

For a second Dorian hesitates, thinking it can be someone his father has hired, the baby just a ruse so people won’t suspect him. “Depends,” he says, wary, eyes already locking onto a shovel that’s leaning against a wooden beam. “Who’s asking, exactly?”

“ _I_ am,” comes a voice from behind the man, and Dorian freezes.

From the inside of a parked car comes Livia, wearing a summer dress and a hat that partially obscures her face. Dorian takes a hold of the shovel’s handle on instinct, and the man in front of him takes a step back and puts a hand over the child’s head protectively.

It’s then that it hits Dorian.

_His child._

“Dorian,” Livia says, her voice gentle yet weary, but Dorian cannot take his eyes away from the baby obscured by the man’s hand.

“Is this...?” He asks, unable to complete the sentence, looking at Livia for confirmation, but Livia just bites her bottom lip.

“Dorian, please. Let’s go sit somewhere, we should talk.”

“Go jump off a cliff, Livia. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police yet.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong by visiting Antiva,” the man says. Dorian immediately turns his glare to him, and so does Livia.

“Claude! Not now, _please_.”

_Nor ever_ , Dorian thinks, hand tightening on the shovel. Livia continues, turning to Dorian once more.

“There’s no need to call the police. We’re not related to your family, nor were we sent by your father. We didn’t come here to cause you any sort of distress, Dorian.”

“So you know about the restraining order,” Dorian says, suspicious, and Livia nods.

“We met with one of the investigators your father hired. He was the one who told us where you were, and then told us about the order. He said that no private investigator will risk going against Antivan law, so the men your father hired have all broken their contracts and are all steering far, far away from both you and the country as a whole. He was rather upset, because apparently he had plenty of customers here before being forbidden to cross the border. Since then no other investigator has accepted the hefty amount of money Halward’s offering for your abduction. You did a smart move.”

Dorian narrows his eyes. “And now you’re here.”

“Yes. Because we need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. _You_ want to talk to _me_. And I don’t know how inclined I am to listen to what you have to say.”

“Well, would it help if I started by apologizing?” She says, laughing softly, her eyes watering up. Dorian wants to believe it to be just for show, but the man, Claude, approaches her and puts an arm around her shoulders, something she seems grateful for. Dorian lets go of the shovel, and the man, apparently deeming Dorian to not be a threat anymore, extends his right hand forward.

“I’m Claude. Claude Babineaux,” he says. Dorian looks suspicious for a moment, but another glance and he sees that the baby in the sling has curly red locks and plenty of freckles, like Claude’s, while he and Livia have pitch black hair and darker skin. He steps forward and shakes the man’s hand warily.

“It doesn’t help, exactly, but it’s a start,” Dorian says, walking back and sitting at one of the stone benches he has for sale. Livia nods silently, and sits on the other end of the bench, leaving a decent gap between them. She glances at Claude, who quickly nods and walks away to browse the shop; Dorian decides not to say anything. With any luck he’ll buy one of the more expensive vases he has for sale.

“I imagine you must have many questions for me,” Livia says, fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of her skirt. Dorian nods.

“The child, in Claude’s arms,” Dorian starts, looking at Livia. “Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

Dorian lifts a brow, confused. “Then what about _my_ child? Because just by looking at her I can see she’s Claude’s and not mine.”

Livia sighs shakily, her hands closing into tight fists.

“There was never a kid, Dorian. I lied. I was pregnant with Claude’s child. I’m sorry.”

Dorian suddenly feels an exhaustion deep in his bones, like someone’s fed him lead and it’s now weighing him down from his guts, his blood running cold like ice.

_A lie._

All this time, and it was all a lie.

And at the same time, a deep realization:

He’s not a father. He hasn’t left a child behind. _It was all a lie._

Just as suddenly as he felt the weight of dread, of _anger_ , he feels a sudden lightness, followed by pure relief. He doesn’t have to worry because he’s got no reason to worry anymore.

He chokes down on a sob, tears watering his eyes.

“You’re a cruel woman, did you know that? _Cruel_. Maker protect the child that has to be raised by a woman as vile as you are.”

To his surprise, however, Livia doesn’t retort, doesn’t bicker back. Instead she lowers her head and nods, lips tight, almost as if agreeing.

Silence falls over them as Livia sniffles lowly, wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue. A few times Dorian considers getting up and leaving her be, but for some reason he stays and waits until she gets herself together.

“Why, then? Why did you do it?” He asks, and Livia sighs again, cheeks and eyes red with tears, pulling her hat off her head and running a hand through her locks.

“I met Claude when you first started college, five years ago. We literally bumped into each other when I was in Val Royeaux for a weekend. We hooked up, exchanged phones, and not before long I was in love.

“For the first few years I didn’t want to admit it to myself, because I knew I was betrothed to you, no matter how little we liked the idea of being together for the rest of our lives. So I’d tell myself it was only a temporary relationship that would only last until I got married, and then Claude and I would be on our ways. But the longer I stayed with him, the harder it was to even think about letting him go. I finally told him this last year about my... _situation_ , and instead of being angry with me, he confessed his love to me and told me we’d work it out somehow.

“It overwhelmed me. We had a fight, because I was angry at him for being so understanding, so _kind_. That’s when I started texting and calling you, and when you ignored me completely, I went to you instead. And then I saw you with that man, looking so... _happy_. And I got mad all over again. I got mad that I was so conflicted and on the verge of breaking things with who should've been the man of my life, while you were seemingly happy with yours. In my bitterness and grief I wanted you to be as miserable as I was, as lonely as I felt. I wanted your sweetheart to know your dirty little secret just as mine now did.”

Dorian scoffs, anger bubbling up in him as he remembers that day, as she shook Bull’s hand and revealed his secret. “That is no excuse for what you did. _I_ was the one who was supposed to tell Bull about my _situation_ , in my own time, on my own terms, like you did with Claude. What you did that day was abhorrent and caused me great distress.”

Livia nods quickly. “I know, I know. I do not mean it as an excuse. What I did was truly unbecoming of me, and I offer my sincerest apologies. I decided to vent in all the wrong ways. But I shouldn't have, and I see it now.”

“You see it much too late,” Dorian spits out, making Livia flinch. _Good_ , he thinks. “And the pregnancy?”

Livia sighs. “I _was_ pregnant back then, but with Claude’s kid. We reconciled after that first visit I paid you, and we kept seeing each other. And then, when I discovered I was expecting, I panicked. I wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that I was pregnant soon enough, but I also didn’t want to abort the child of the man that I loved. I knew your mother and father would convince my parents that aborting was the right thing to do once they found out the child wasn’t yours, or _worse_ , they’d slip something in my meals in case I refused.”

She shivers at the thought, and Dorian bites his lip. It’s a horrid thought indeed, but it is unfortunately not beyond his parents’ capabilities.

“So I told your parents about how I’d gone to the fertilization clinic and had the procedure done as a _surprise_ , while I paid off my doctor to corroborate my story should anyone ask. They were thrilled; it was a _lovely_ _ingenious_ idea, as they put it. They thought it was a perfect plan. It almost made me sick.”

Dorian himself is having trouble keeping his lunch down as it is; he can barely imagine what it must've been like for Livia to go through it, pretending she agreed with them.

“And then you went to campus to tell me, to keep up the ruse.”

“And to let you know the wedding date had changed, yes,” she agrees, nodding. “Back then I was even more desperate about the eminent wedding and leaving Claude, and because of the early pregnancy my nerves were at their worse. And I took it out on you. No matter my reasons, I was awful to you. Immensely so. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m sorry.”

Dorian looks at her, then, and she’s looking straight at him, eyes wide and pleading. Dorian doesn’t know if he can ever forgive her for what she did, but this is, at least, a step in the right direction.

She shifts her hands in her lap, and a ring on her finger glints in the sunlight.

A wedding ring.

“So what happened to the marriage?”

Livia chuckles. “Well. _That’s_ where it gets interesting. When you disappeared out of thin air after your graduation ceremony, your father went berserk, and your mother just went back to the estate to drink herself dumb. Halward hired private detectives the very next day, but three days later one of them got approached by your lawyer, and one by one they quit. No one wants to mess with Antivan laws.”

Dorian barks a laugh. It’s even more satisfying than he thought it would be. Livia joins him by laughing politely behind her hand.

“The marriage party was cancelled, naturally. It gave your parents a massive headache, especially because the entire Magisterium still talks about it to this day. And seven months into the pregnancy I told my own parents about Claude; I was glad I had no obligation to marry you anymore, but keeping Claude a secret was killing me. He wasn’t wealthy or influential in any way, but my parents saw how happy I was with him and how relieved I was to not have to go through with an arranged marriage, and they blessed us both. We all traveled to Orlais so the families could meet each other, and Claude finally proposed to me. We got married a month after Lucille was born at the countryside in Orlais. It was a simple event, given the time frame we had to organize everything, but it was exactly how I dreamed it would be.”

Livia then takes her phone, swipes her finger on the screen a few times, and hands it to Dorian. When he takes it, he sees that the screen background is a picture of Livia in her wedding dress, white with gold threads and embroidery, standing next to Claude, who’s wearing a matching white and gold tuxedo. They’re both holding a baby girl between them; she’s in a frilly gold dress that matches her curly red hair perfectly and complements the freckles that pepper her skin. The three of them are standing under a tree that’s cascading pink flowers over and behind them, their smiles almost blindingly happy to the camera.

“This is from our wedding day.”

“It’s a lovely photo,” Dorian says, handing her the phone back. Livia nods, and before the silence can stretch for too long, Dorian rises from his seat, indicating he’s quite finished talking. Livia follows his lead and quickly gets up. “I’m glad to know you’re happy, Livia. I’m not sure if I can forgive you yet, if ever, but I’m glad you came here to offer your apologies. It means a lot to me.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t come here expecting to be forgiven. But I still knew I needed to apologize for how I treated you and what I did to you, and to tell you the truth about Lucille. I kept thinking it was probably eating you from the inside out.”

“And you thought right, my dear,” Dorian agrees, nodding. From behind them, Claude calls for Livia, who turns quickly to lock eyes with him. He appears from behind a ficus, carefully holding a colorful vase away from Lucille, who’s trying, with plenty of determination, to reach it from her place in the sling with her chubby little fingers.

It’s one of the expensive vases they have for sale. Dorian smiles.

 

\---

 

When Bull comes back home from college, the shop is closed. He finds it odd – Dorian never closes shop unless something urgent happens – and so a prickle of worry starts deep in his guts. He goes straight into their house, hurrying along the cobblestone path and fumbling with his keys until the front door opens.

He finds Dorian sitting on the living room couch wearing his stay-at-home sweatpants, legs curled up, a photo album on his lap.

“Hey kadan,” Bull says, and Dorian snaps his head up as if he hadn’t heard him come in. He rubs his face with a hand wordlessly, looking unusually tired, and Bull drops his backpack anywhere before sitting next to Dorian. “Whatchu got there?” He asks, motioning to the album.

“Old family photos,” Dorian says, turning the album so Bull can see the pages better, and indeed; the left page has a couple of photos of what looks like a formal party of sorts, people in a wide marble room talking and holding champagne flutes in their hands, and on the right there’s a big, professional quality picture of the Pavus family that takes over the entire page. Bull’s never seen pictures of Dorian’s parents before, but it’s quite obvious that it’s them, given the resemblance: Halward has Dorian’s eyes and mouth, and Aquinea has Dorian’s nose and facial structure. They stand tall, with their backs ramrod straight and that upwards tilt of the chin Bull’s seen Dorian replicate so many times before, Aquinea in a beautiful golden dress that flows down her body like a cascade, hands folded in front of her, and Halward in a full grey suit and white dress shirt, fingers settled over his vest buttons and around his wife’s waist.

Between them stands a young Dorian, around six or seven years old. He’s wearing a black suit and dress shirt along with a red tie. He’s smiling brightly, crinkling the corner of his eyes and rounding out his cheeks, the polar opposite of the serious and stern expressions his parents have put on.

“My parents were livid when they saw this picture.” Dorian laughs sadly, shaking his head. “We were going to a black tie magisterium event, and it was the first one I’d attend with them. There was a photographer at the entrance, taking everyone’s pictures, and while my mother and father looked regal, I was so excited I just flashed my most genuine smile. They always made sure to look down at me before taking pictures at all future events.”

“It’s a nice picture though.”

Dorian hums. “True. But according to them, it is not an accurate representation of the Pavus heritage. Too carefree, I suppose.”

Bull throws an arm around Dorian’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Man. Your parents had quite a set of sticks up their asses, huh?”

That makes Dorian laugh, throwing his head back against the couch’s cushions. Bull chuckles along and places a messy kiss over Dorian’s cheek, making him giggle.

“What brought this on, kadan?”

Dorian wipes his eyes and cheek and sighs, staring at the picture again.

“Livia paid me a visit today.”

Bull tenses, his arm tightening around Dorian.

“Are you okay? Did you call the cops?” He asks, shaken up for not being able to be here by Dorian’s side when he most needed, but Dorian shakes his head, placing a hand over Bull’s.

“She didn’t come here by my parent’s request. Apparently both our parents had a fall-off after I ran. She got married to an Orlesian she’d been seeing for the last six years or so, but that’s not the best thing.” He turns to Bull, a shaky smile on his face. “She _apologized_. For everything. And the baby? It’s not mine. It’s _his_. It was _never_ mine.”

Bull exhales, then wraps Dorian in a hug. “ _Kadan_. That’s incredible news. You must be so relieved.”

“Yes, I am, by the Maker. You cannot imagine.”

He pulls back, then looks again at the photo album. Bull lifts a brow.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Dorian sighs, fingers tracing over the picture.

“It got me thinking, amatus. They both looked so happy, with their child in their arms, and I thought about how having that for myself, someday in the future... wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.”

Bull smiles. “You’d make a great parent, kadan. Any child that has the privilege to call you _pater_ would be a lucky one.”

Dorian lifts a brow. “ _Pater_?” He asks, and Bull shrugs.

“Father sounds too formal, doesn’t it? Also, I have to use my Tevinter studies for something.”

“Show-off,” Dorian giggles, pressing a kiss to the corner of Bull’s lips. “But yes. Someday, perhaps, if lady destiny so wishes it to be so. But not at the moment. One thing at a time, right amatus?”

“Right. No need to rush, kadan,” Bull agrees, and Dorian closes the album, putting it aside as he gets up and off from the couch, offering a hand to Bull.

“Shall we work together on dinner, dearest?”

“Nothing would make me happier, babe,” Bull smiles, and takes his hand.

In a small town near one of the branches of the Minanter River in the Green Dales, inside a two-floors brick and stones house, two men live the beginning of the rest of their lives.

_Together_.


End file.
